#so reverting to a previous state

[viric-dreams]

[soft-serve-soymilk]

In other news, I was listening to the P3 Movie ost in light of wondering if they will include it in the remake in some way.. it slaps harder than I remembered!

[topazadine]

Avoiding therapy speak in writing

I think we all know by now that therapy speak is irritating and unrealistic, especially if you are writing in a fantasy world that doesn't even have modern psychology.

Part of the reason that it is so annoying is that it is the definition of telling instead of showing: characters are just plainly informing us of their feelings rather than making us work for a better understanding. It's cheap and boring. Instead of making your characters seem like complex individuals with their own hangups and difficulties, they seem like plot points programmed to tell us things.

But obviously, you want to put these people in situations and have them talk about it! How do you do that without sounding maudlin? Here are some options.

Listen to real arguments/conversations

I cannot stress enough how important it is to listen to how actual real human beings talk to each other during heightened emotional states. They don't have to be nasty abusers, and they don't have to be perfect angels, just everyday people doing their normal thing.

Of course, I'd hope you're not seeing people argue all the time, but if you do happen to see it, listen carefully and notice how people actually address their problems. Think back to tough conversations that you have had, even if you wouldn't classify them as arguments. Consider how people acted and reacted to one another. Notice how normal humans talk about issues outside of therapy, even intelligent and emotionally evolved people.

I've had years of therapy, and even I do not talk in therapy ways about my issues when I'm talking to my family or friends. It just feels cheesy and fake outside of that particular setting - plus, it freaks other people out and can seem kind of manipulative. Try talking like that in a real conversation and see how uncomfortable it is. You'll understand why avoiding therapy speak is important.

Consider the character's own hangups

Just as everyone has their own unique speaking style and mindset, so do we all have our own argument styles. These are often informed by our pasts and upbringing; they are as varied as our own histories. However, there are a few different options.

Someone with a happy upbringing may be more assertive and willing to address their problems because they had that demonstrated to them as children.

A spoiled child will grow up to be a demanding adult who refuses to give any quarter.

Those who got yelled at a lot as children may shut down and fawn to avoid getting hurt.

Someone who grew up in a violent household may mimic that behavior and get incredibly aggressive when upset.

Individuals whose parents didn't teach them emotional regulation will lash out and get loud.

Manipulative people may stay very calm and gaslight the other person, or they may get hysterical to garner sympathy and make people focus on comforting them.

Someone who has gone to therapy may revert to their original argument style, or they may imperfectly apply what they have learned in a way that feels a bit unnatural. They may start out with rage, then force themselves to calm down through grounding techniques.

People who have been coached through previous emotional outbursts could demand a time out, then fail to actually calm themselves down.

Some may refuse to acknowledge they are upset and insist, in increasingly forceful terms, that they are fine.

Others may get quiet or crack a joke to ease the tension, but it doesn't really help.

Keep each confrontation short

IRL, emotional confrontations are generally not that long. They don't go on for hours and hours, though it can feel that way. No one is going on and on about their feelings and sharing every little detail of how they feel (at least not that I know of personally, maybe other people are different).

Even the worst arguments I have had, the real nexus of the argument was maybe an hour or two, though the fallout lasted much longer. I'd say there was an hour maximum of real, active confrontation, preceded or followed by hours/days/weeks of simmering frustration.

Why? Because arguments are exhausting. You don't have the energy for that in the heat of the moment. Yes, feuds and fights can last years, but each actual confrontation is short.

For longer, more serious issues, hash it out over a few sessions rather than all at once. It's rare to get everything out of the way immediately unless the characters already have a strong, loving relationship.

Show incongruencies

Especially for more reserved people, they will likely have their emotions leaking all over the place but won't actually say anything. As such, focus on body language while keeping the conversation more focused on the plot. For example, Character A might be crying but still trying to argue their point about whatever is going on.

Address physical complaints instead of emotional ones

In many cases, people will use "I'm tired" or "I didn't sleep well" or "I'm not feeling great" as shorthand for whatever is actually bothering them. It relieves pressure by not making them talk about upsetting matters while still addressing their discomfort in some form.

You should also consider the fact that some people can't connect physical sensations to feelings, so they may genuinely feel ill and not really understand why. This is especially common in people who can't emotionally regulate or have been through trauma.

For myself, I tend to somatize my feelings, so I might not feel upset, but I will feel physically sick. My stomach will hurt, my chest will get tight, or I'll get a headache, but my emotional state will seem calm. This isn't all that unusual, and many people experience this to different degrees.

As such, you can have your character say that their stomach hurts, or that they have a headache and can't discuss this anymore, or that they need to go lie down because they're dizzy. If we know they're relatively healthy, this can be a clue that they're getting overwhelmed but either cannot pinpoint their emotions or don't want to discuss them.

Let characters advance and retreat

A lot of the time, someone will address a scary emotion and then retreat again, sometimes over a period of hours, days, or even weeks. This is normal: most of us don't have the emotional fortitude to forge ahead through something difficult all in one go. Character A may say something vulnerable, then change the topic, laugh it off, say they're done discussing it, or even leave the situation.

Leave emotions partially unaddressed

Again, it's rare for someone to spill out everything they're feeling all in one go. As such, have Character A address the most important thing - or the least important, depending on their level of emotional maturity - and let it be done for then.

They might say their small piece, but when someone tries to probe deeper, they don't have an answer, or they get "stuck" on that one emotional level and cannot go further.

If Character B keeps pushing, then they may get incredibly upset and push back, or retreat.

Have Character B point out the feelings

Works especially well if the other character is a close companion or a parental figure. Often, people who know us really well will have better insight into our emotions than we do. Or, we might have good insight into our emotions but are still too afraid to open up. Having Character B point out the issue gives Character A grace to be more honest.

I can't tell you how many times I've been really upset, so I've distracted from the issue by getting angry about something completely different. Then, my mom will gently point out that I'm not actually crying about my new plastic cup being broken or whatever; I'm actually upset about XYZ. In that moment, I realize I've been caught out and admit that yes, that's what I'm really upset about.

Have Character A address it with a third character

Who among us hasn't gone to someone else to talk about our feelings? Having a third party serve as a sounding board is normal. Sometimes, Character A will feel such catharsis from this conversation that they don't address it as thoroughly with Character B.

Of course, you can use this to your advantage and create more tension if the third character gives bad advice or is biased.

Remember that just because the third party responded well does not mean that Character B does. You also have to avoid omniscience and remember that Character B wasn't privy to that conversation.

Have one confrontation be a stand-in for a larger one

I always think about the "The Iranian Yogurt Is Not the Issue" post when I think about this. Often times, things like not doing the dishes or whatever aren't actually the big deal: it's lack of boundaries, communication, or respect. A minor argument can be shorthand for a larger one that is too challenging for the characters to tackle.

This isn't just creating drama for the hell of it, though; it's about exploring the larger issues without making the characters lay it out on the table. A good reader will be able to see it's not about the Iranian Yogurt as long as you set up the relationship well.

Currently, I am writing a story where Uileac and his sister Cerie go to rescue Uileac's husband, Orrinir. On the way there, Uileac idly comments on how he wonders where a waterfall comes from because he's trying to distract himself from thinking about the fact that his husband is kidnapped and possibly dead.

Cerie, being pretty wound up too, starts arguing with him about it because she's like "why is this relevant? We're kind of too busy to think about geology right now!" Uileac gets annoyed at her for being so aggro, and she gets annoyed at him for being so irreverent. Both of them are upset about something completely different, but they're too scared and panicked to actually address that, so they release their frustrations by complaining about waterfalls.

Those bad vibes have to go somewhere, but neither of them are very good at talking about their feelings (though very good at stuffing them down). As such, they take the pressure off by sniping at one another. You've probably done this too, when you get into a dumb argument about something absolutely pointless because there's something you don't feel strong enough to discuss.

There's also the fact that if you're mad at someone about something but feel it's too stupid or petty to discuss, that frustration will leak out and everything else they do will annoy you, leading to a bunch of irrelevant arguments.

Use "reaffirmation" gestures

I talked about this in a different post, but after an argument, the "make up" stage doesn't always involve going "ohhh I forgive you" and big hugs and kisses, especially when the two characters aren't emotionally mature.

Instead, Character A makes gestures that reaffirm the relationship. This could be offering to do something Character B needs, making plans for later, or changing the topic to discuss something the other character cares about ("how are your cats doing?") etc.

Note that these "reaffirmation" gestures aren't the same as the cycle of abuse. This is more when two characters have had a difficult emotional conversation but aren't really sure how to continue being emotionally open, so they revert to something safer that still shows they care. They're not over-the-top gestures either, but more a special attention to something the other person loves. Knowing what the other person loves also demonstrates the depth of their relationship.

As always, I can't tell you what to do with your writing.

You are the crafter of your own story, and if you want people to talk like therapists for whatever reason, that's your choice. However, we want characters to feel like real people, and most real people don't lay it all out on the table every single time they're upset. If they do, they might be trauma vomiting, which is icky in and of itself.

Healthy communication isn't always perfect communication. People can have strong, loving relationships and still get things wrong - we're human. Having people calmly and rationally and easily talk about their feelings every single time is not only kind of boring, but it also feels weird, because unless we're primed to discuss those difficult topics and know we're perfectly safe, we're not going to do that.

People don't even do that in therapy, where they are paying for the service of talking about their feelings! Therapists also don't always do that IRL!

We're humans, and your characters need to feel like humans as well. That means letting them be imperfect communicators and using context clues rather than making them do all the work for the reader.

If you liked my advice, consider purchasing my book, 9 Years Yearning, for $3!

[psychotrenny]

I don't think "Fascist" is a very useful or accurate thing to call Caesar and his Legion (from Fallout: New Vegas) in the context of the game world itself. Like there are a lot of aesthetic similarities and basically all of their unironic real world fans are some sort of Nazi Nerd, but when talking about their place within the context of fictional post-nuclear Nevada it just doesn't work. Like Caesar's whole deal is that he's a Social Scientist who, living in a world that's been "blasted back to the Stone Age", figures that society must evolve through the same stages if it wants to properly return to modernity. The Legion is basically comprised of "Primitive Communists"* who've been forced into a Slave Society. His criticisms of the NCR boil down to them being a moribund remnant of/reversion to Old World Capitalism rather than something organically adapted to the post-Nuclear world. He repeatedly talks about how the Legion isn't meant to represent an ideal society but simply a stepping stone onto something better (the thesis that will clash with it's antithesis and evolve into a superior synthesis). His interactions with the Courier heavily imply that the Legion's Misogyny, Homophobia, Tech aversion etc. are much more tools of social organisation and control than values that Caesar personally holds. The Legion isn't just some band of mindlessly violent reactionaries but the product of very deliberate Social Engineering; a peculiarly post-nuclear sort of scientifically planned society

Now I'm not defending the Legion as a "good" choice or anything; Caesar's plan has a lot of problems, it's not hard to poke holes into and in terms of unadulterated cruelty The Legion is easily the most morally repugnant of the main factions. But the thing I really love about The Legion is how, within the specific context of Fallout's setting, it makes sense. Like once you really think about it you can understand why someone in Edward Sallow's position would arrive at these conclusions, and there are good reasons why (if you take your roleplaying seriously and don't treat the Player Character as an extension of yourself) someone living in this world might chose to side with him. The Legion may be terrible but it's not evil for the sake of evil; there's genuinely a compelling ideology behind it.

It's why I get sad when I see so many people dismiss them as the "dum dum fascist slavers" because there's so much more to them than that. Like I think the best part about The Legion is how ridiculous they first appear ("These raiders dress like Ben-Hur extras?????) but once you find out more about them then it all starts to click ("Oh I see their leader is trying to assimilate them into a distinct and alien culture in order to maintain their loyalty; severing their previous connections and giving them a whole new identity"). So it sucks to see so many people get caught up in the first part and never make enough connections to reach the second. Like in general, Fallout: New Vegas is very messy and flawed and yet it's full of all these interesting little nuances and I think that's worth appreciating it. It's why, time and time again, I keep walking down that dusty road

*in the very broad sense that Fallouts "Tribals" are meant to represent people who have reverted back to some sort of pre-state society; of course there are countless problems with how Fallout treats this matter (including but not limited to incredible amounts of racism) but in order to understand Caesar we're forced to meet the game on it's terms

[minniepetals]

cry me a river | the habits

— summary: you are a weapon and weapons do not weep

— pairing: bts x reader

— genre: angst, mafia!au

— word count: 6.4k

— warnings: physical abuse, violence, mentally unstable mindset

— PART 25 / previous post / masterpost

One.

Two.

Three.

The seconds will pass. The minutes will fly. The hours will go.

You’re alright.

Endure it. Endure it.

It will pass.

Everything will pass just as everything has always passed.

In time, father will raise his hand to indicate them to stop. A stop signal. He may leave the room out of boredom but he will return just as he always does in order to demand them to leave you alone. He will never be satisfied but there is always a limit to everything and father sometimes gets too bored to keep seeing it, to keep hearing it, so he’s always there to stop it.

Eventually.

Eventually.

You just have to endure it for now until the signal comes, until—

“What are you doing?!”

You didn’t realize it and perhaps that’s because you blacked out, your mind keeping you from feeling it all completely, trying to protect you, but you’re sitting on the ground when a call demands out an answer in a loud, commanding voice, and a rushing of a pair of feet running over to push Karl off you.

Asher punches Karl right in the face, throwing him off you, before demanding the guards he has with him to hold the man back.

“She provoked me!” Karl argues like a child in a kid’s play.

He’s never been abruptly stopped before. Always angry, never satisfied.

Nothing is ever enough when it comes to the two of them. 

Karl landing hurt through his fists and weapons and anything he can get a hand on. Your father landing hurt through his commands, watching and watching and watching.

And you, their victim, who has to stay down and accept it all until there is a small amount of satisfaction that calls at them to stop.

You always wait on that call, no matter how much endurance it takes.

“That doesn’t make it right to lay your hand on a woman!” Asher retorts with anger laced in his tone, and this anger, despite how different it is from that of Karl’s, still shakes you violently though you keep as still as ever, paralyzed.

Paralyzed.

Even when the anger does not fall on you, even when he does not turn to you but towards the companion who stands behind you, who had stood still this whole time. “And what are you doing? Your boss was getting hit and you just stood there?”

Yeonjun, with a snap on cue, kneels over to your side and looks down at you with widened eyes and a frozen expression. He doesn’t touch you right away, cautious, but you see what those eyes mean, you know exactly what that expression is telling you.

That he, too, had reverted back to the past.

When your father still lived, when he had to stand by and watch everything without moving a muscle.

He reverted back just as you had.

Two little kids, who're still affected by the traumas of the past.

Two little kids.

You take Yeonjun’s hand, giving him the permission to touch you, so he helps you back onto your feet and the two of you remain in silence as you walk off with his help, not daring to look Karl in the eyes, not caring to reply to Asher.

But you feel yourself trembling with the presence of a pair of eyes boring right into your back. Not from Asher or Karl or the two guards but from someone else.

The ghost of him.

Of that man.

That man named father.

.

.

.

“Y/N?” There’s concern in Jungkook’s voice when you walk into the room and you guess that’s probably because of the state you’re in, but right now you can’t entertain him so you simply hold a hand up, asking him to stay back, and Jungkook, though worried, leaves the room on your behalf.

When you’re left alone with Yeonjun, you let your legs give in to sit on the floor rather than finding a chair or taking a seat on the bed.

The floor is comfortable. It’s always been more comfortable.

The boy takes your heels off, along with your jacket, and despite the sting of the pain that aches over your body, the only thing on your mind is the fact that you let it happen so easily, that you allowed yourself to walk back into that state of being an obedient and perfect little doll.

You reverted back to the damages just when you thought after father’s death, you wouldn’t let anyone walk over you anymore.

But it isn’t easy.

It isn’t easy.

And it will never be easy.

Father still lives in your head rent free and there’s nothing you can do about it. No matter how much time has passed, nothing will change. It’s already been a little over a year since his death but he’s still here, still thriving, mocking you, taunting you, controlling everything that you are.

You’re shaking, trembling, not just out of fear but out of anger. Angry at yourself. For being so weak, for reverting back, for thinking things could get better.

And with Yeonjun the only one here with you at the moment, you lean into his touch and let yourself into his arms to allow the sort of warmth only your Reapers can provide you.

Yeonjun’s heartbeat won’t be the same as Mingyu’s, it’s probably even beating rapidly right now, so you don’t let your ear rest against his chest and instead wrap your arms over his neck and climb into his lap to lay your cheek against his shoulder.

Yeonjun brings his hand over to rub down your back but he’s a little awkward and unsure because he’s never really had to do this; comforting you. It’s always been Mingyu, and if Mingyu wasn’t there, it’d be Yuna, and if Yuna couldn’t do it, it’d be Dasom, or someone else.

Anyone else.

He’s only a kid after all, just eighteen years old, the youngest of your Reapers, but because no one else is here, he does his best to pick up the role that’s been given unto him.

Yet you feel him tremble slightly himself and you guess that in some way, he must be afraid as well.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers to you. “I didn’t…I…”

You know what he’s trying to say, that he failed you, that he couldn’t protect you. But can you really blame him? Because just as you’ve been trained to endure through the pains and take everything that’s given unto you, Yeonjun, the Reapers, were trained to stand by and watch.

Habits are scary.

Frightening.

And because you don’t know how to console him and he doesn’t know how to console you, the two of you remain in silence simply holding onto one another.

Just two little kids having to rely on each other.

Just two little kids.

And after a little while, when things have settled a little more, when he starts shaking a little less, Yeonjun gathers himself and forces himself out of the state he’s in.

He stands up and you watch him leave for a second, not too long, because he rushes, and returns with materials in hand to begin tending to you. It remains as quiet as ever between the two of you, but you see the way his brows furrow in concentration and he stops himself from staying in the mindset of a teenager.

Of a child.

He becomes an adult, a reliable adult. For you. Applying what’s needed on the bruises that have swelled up, wrapping your arm with bandages, and when you frown with disgust at the sight of the white wrapping on you, wanting it off, complaining, he doesn’t fall into your trap and stands his ground just as he’s seen Mingyu do plenty of times.

Yeonjun gets frightened of you at times but he always listens to your every command and does all that you ask him within a heartbeat, but today he grows a pair of wings and knocks you lightly on the head with his knuckles when you try to push him away, when you get stubborn with him.

“Do you want to die?” You glare at him but he doesn’t give in.

“You can kill me after I treat you,” he says and continues his ministrations.

“I hate it,” you tell him. “I don’t like it, this…this white.” You try to scratch at yourself but he grabs your hand before you can and your face scrunches up with anguish. “Get it off me.” 

You tug the pearls on your neck and it scatters onto the floor but you don’t care and move on to the white dress, yet Yeonjun stops you once more.

“You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I’m not weak.”

“I never said you were.” And because he knows the signs, because he’s seen it plenty of times in you, he grabs the sleeve, rips it, then the hem of the dress, and tears that as well without doing too much. “See? Look. Imperfect.” You hate perfect things and seeing that, the tears of the dress, alleviate a bit of your drumming heartbeat, so Yeonjun grabs a pair of scissors to start cutting off bits of your dress.

All your life you’ve been told to be perfect, that everything you do must be under the command of your father. He made you into his perfect little doll, his perfect little weapon, prepared you for the battlefield, prepared you for war.

For the war that he brought, for the war that was his.

Or rather, he was the war itself.

You are a weapon, and weapons do not weep. Weapons are used and weapons do not run off on their own. Weapons are perfect, they fire at the command of their owner, they’re silent when told, and left to waste if they do not do their job.

You’ve never wanted to be left to waste, you’ve never wanted to be dropped back into an empty room, the White Room, and never picked up again.

“I look broken,” you utter a whisper as if shocked at the image of yourself when you look down at the mess of your dress and the white bandages on your body. Your brows are knitted, teeth grinding on each other, fingers dug into the skin of your palm, eyes red but as always, they refuse to cry.

Because weapons do not weep.

And Yeonjun, for a second, almost panics, thinking he did something wrong, but in Mingyu’s wise words, “Just because it looks like I know what I’m doing when it comes to boss does not mean that is the truth. It is far from the truth. There are times when it feels like I’ve messed up, times when I’m about to panic because she responds differently from what I imagined, but you cannot ever show her that you do not know what you’re doing. Ever. Just pretend when you’re in that position, and if you’re good at pretending, she won’t know a thing,” Yeonjun quickly pulls himself back up.

“You don’t look broken,” he puts the scissors down and takes your two trembling fists. “You look imperfect.”

You look imperfect.

Imperfect.

It does the trick.

He sees the way the crease between your brows starts to soften, how your clenched jaw loosens, the way you let him help your fingers unravel from the strength they held digging into yourself, and how your shoulders fall a bit from being so hunched up.

“I look imperfect?” You ask him, eyes wide and puppy-like, darting right to him and though they shake slightly, they look towards him for an answer, for reassurance, to detect any lie, to seek for the truth. But also pleading, also begging for him to say just that.

Even if the lie must disguise itself as the truth.

“You do,” so Yeonjun lies skillfully. “You look imperfect, boss.”

There’s a breath of relief, quiet and subtle, and it comes in a whisper just barely there. Yeonjun keeps you close and presses a palm to your chest, just where your heartbeat strums.

“Now count,” he tells you. “Mingyu says counting is good, right? Count until he gets here.”

“Is he coming?” You ask when he takes both your hands to take over where his palm once lay.

“Yes,” he lies again. He hasn’t made the call yet. “Soon.”

“You have to stay here.”

“I will.”

“No one can come in.”

“I know.”

“Don’t talk to him, don’t let Karl anywhere near me.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“I’m tired.”

“Alright, come here.” He pulls you in carefully into his lap, in his arms, and you let yourself be warmed and comforted in his arms once more, this time with your back pressed to his chest.

“I don’t want to sleep,” you tell him. “The nightmares…they’ll come. He’ll come. He’ll visit. And he’ll try to make me perfect all over again.”

He. Your father.

“I don’t want to be perfect.” It isn’t a command, it’s a plea. A desperate cry for help.

“Then don’t sleep. But count the heartbeats, yeah? Count.” The soft lure of his voice, gentle, encouraging.

With hands still pressed against your chest, you let your ear tune out everything else in order to hear the beat of your heart so that you can start counting them.

One. Two. Three…

It’s fast and you know that you can’t completely count every individual one of them but you try your best to simply concentrate on only that while your eyes stare out at the window a few feet away. The sun shines brightly from the opened curtains and there’s a small little bird perched on the closest tree.

It jumps onto a branch and rests there with its head moving about in different directions.

There are pretty white clouds up above and one of the bigger ones shapes like a castle and you imagine fairies up there, hiding.

There’s another cloud that looks like a cat and another one shaped like a ghost.

The wind blows and your eyes turn back to the bird that flies off.

Thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five…

It’s slowing down, just slightly.

.

.

.

“I heard what happened this afternoon.”

Kiwi keeps you distracted as he nibbles with your finger. You can’t recall when he’s decided to hang around you rather than his own master whenever you’re around but at least it gives you a reason to not look someone in the eyes.

“Would you like to tell me what happened from your perspective?”

Thirty-something years old. You can’t even remember just how old you are but lately, it hasn’t mattered in the slightest because you feel much younger than what you actually are. Like you’re twenty-something. Even a teen. It doesn’t feel like you’ve aged much.

Your birthday hasn’t been celebrated since your time at the Bangtan manor but it doesn’t really matter. Nothing really matters.

Because you feel like a kid back under the control of your father, having to do what you’re told, obeying his every command like someone who can’t do anything on her own.

Under scrutiny.

“What did Karl tell you?” You pop a question of your own, eyes still unfocused, mind still trying to pretend you’re fine, that you’re okay in a room full of strangers.

There’s only one stranger but a stranger nonetheless.

“He said you provoked him.”

“That’s right.” You don’t deny it and instead nod, expression blank so that Alexander cannot tell what’s going on inside your head. And maybe he does, maybe all of this faking is futile because he’s so wise, but you don’t care. You keep still, you keep vague, and you remain cold.

“Is that so…?” He trails off, perhaps thinking, and you can feel his eyes never leaving you. “And what was it that you did to have provoked him?”

“I told him something he didn’t like.”

“And what’s that?”

“That I killed his best friend.”

“And did you?”

“I did.”

“And who was that?”

“My father.”

He pauses, perhaps because he hadn’t expected that answer but you’re sure he’s thinking back on the moment when you first mentioned your father to him. The “story” you gave him was that your father passed away and was a good friend of Karl’s, though you never mentioned anything else about it. 

And now here’s the answer; you killed him yourself.

“Is that why you let Karl do what he did?” He asks you. “Because you thought you deserved the punishment for what you did? Some people may not regret their actions but they’ll let the person most affected do something against them. Was that how it was?”

No.

No, not at all.

You didn’t let Karl hurt you because you knew he’d be hurt by what you did. You didn’t let him hurt you because you thought he at least deserved to lash his anger out on you. Or that you felt bad. Or that you wanted some sort of punishment. Or that you were repenting.

You let Karl hurt you because you’d always let him hurt you, just as you’d always let everyone hurt you.

Because that was how it always was.

A habit.

Being the weaker one, being the one who would chant the words endure, endure because that was what was instilled in you from the moment Mister Butler died. You cannot get out of your habits that easily, you do not just get stronger because you vow to yourself you will.

You don’t just get stronger and you certainly don’t just decide ‘I won’t let anyone step over me anymore’ and succeed on the first try.

Or the second try.

Or the third.

Even the tenth or hundredth time.

You let Karl hurt you because you were used to it and your body, remembering how it always was before your father died, returned to those habits.

The habits of staying still, the habits of enduring all that came at you.

“Yes.” But you lie because what else is there to say? You lie because there is nothing else to say. Because you don’t want to tell the truth. Because the truth means explaining and explaining means opening up and opening up means trusting and trusting never ends well.

You lie because you have to.

“That is all there is to it.” You put Kiwi down onto the floor and stand up straight, making sure to look in the old man’s direction with your hands held together in a formal stance. “Karl’s story is the whole truth. I deserved what he did, for killing his best friend, for killing my father.”

His brows are furrowed and you sense doubt in his eyes but because he has no proof and because you’re not willing to share anything else with him, he can’t push you too hard about the matter. “Whether that is the truth or not, do you really think a man much older and bigger has the right to hurt a woman younger and smaller in stature? No–” he fixes his sentence, “do you think a man is in his right to hurt a woman?”

“A man is capable of hurting anything that he wishes to hurt. He is in the power to do so.”

“You are strong, Y/N.” He stands to meet your eyes, serious, calm, and collected, but there’s a little twitch in his brows to indicate that he feels a bit frustrated by the situation. “You are capable of dodging his attacks. Even if a man were much bigger and stronger than you, you have the brains to outsmart them. You don’t look like someone who will easily let someone else step all over you.”

No. You are exactly just that. You are still the little girl you thought had changed. You’re still weak.

“So I’ll ask you again, Y/N; why did you let Karl hurt you?”

You hate feeling caged in and right now, despite the fact that only Alexander stands in this room, you feel eyes from all over. And maybe that’s just you being paranoid, maybe you’re just making it all up in your head, but you hate every bit of it. 

Every bit of this.

“I gave you my answer, take it with a grain of salt. Do not pretend to be on my side.” And with that, you turn your back to him and walk off without another word.

Alexander doesn’t chase after you but you feel his eyes.

It’s ironic the way you’re supposed to be the one trying to gain his favor and yet this happens; you pushing him away and putting up your walls. And Asher makes sure to remind you of that.

“Isn’t the whole point of you being here to gain his favor?”

He stops you in the middle of the hall when you’re heading back to the guest room.

“Why?” He asks, genuinely curious, maybe even with a bit of genuine concern in that tone.

“Maybe I’m tired,” you say in a quiet voice.

“Of?”

“Of trying to be likable.”

He hums, considering the answer with his arms crossed over his chest and leaning against the wall. “And that young bodyguard of yours,” he brings up Yeonjun, “he may be a kid but don’t you think he deserves punishment for failing you?”

“No.” You reply easily and Asher raises a brow.

“You won’t punish him?”

“I don’t blame him.”

He watches you as if you were a strange being, like you weren’t making sense, though there’s a bit of unease that marks his features, some sort of disturbance that troubles his thoughts and you realize that you’ve said too much so you start walking again.

“My people aren’t allowed to act unless I tell them to.”

But Asher doesn’t want to leave it with just that. “You wanted my uncle to hurt you?”

“Nobody wants to get hurt willingly, Asher.”

“Then what is it?”

You’re talking too much.

“It is none of your concern, that’s what it is.” With that, you pick up your steps and walk into the room before he can push you any further.

Jungkook is in there when you walk in, and although being left in a room with just him should trigger some sort of response, surprisingly you don’t tremble that easily and perhaps that’s due to the fact that somehow, in some way, your body just knows that Jungkook doesn’t pose any threat to you. Perhaps because somehow, in some way, you’ve learned to put some trust in him in just the slightest way through the times he’s spent acting as your guard.

It’s been a little over a month.

Mingyu came here prior to your meeting with Alexander and surprisingly you didn’t need him as much as you thought you did. You think that’s because Yeonjun managed to calm you down well, despite his perpetual fear in the beginning. He picked himself up in time, after all, and was there for you by mirroring what Mingyu would have done.

Maybe in some ways, your right hand man has trained all the Reapers in how to respond to you when he isn’t around.

He took Yeonjun away for something, though right now you aren’t too concerned about it.

“..Kook.”

You feel tired, you feel drained, and that’s why you’ve managed to only call Jungkook by a shortened name.

He’s responsive at the first call, despite how quiet your voice is, and when he sees that you’ve given him permission to come in close contact with you, he doesn’t hesitate to walk over to you.

“Do you need something?”

It’s odd the way you feel some sort of relief he’s as responsive as he used to be all those years ago. Maybe because a part of Jungkook will always remain the way that he always was, maybe that’s why you’ve learned to associate him with a figure that you can put a bit of trust in.

“When are they coming?”

“They?” He tilts his head and when you reach a hand out towards him, he takes it in order to help you because you feel your legs are weak in the knees.

“Namjoon. Them.” He takes you to the bed so that you can lie down.

“In a month or so,” he replies. “You said as much time as you need to gain Alexander’s favor but the latest would be in a month.”

You’re already winning so what’s the point in waiting? 

It’s been a month, over a month.

You just want to go home already.

“Can you call him?”

Jungkook looks for his phone. “What for?”

“Tell him to come earlier,” you say, body turned over towards him, cheek against the pillow, eyes drowsy. “In a week. I don’t…Karl has…I want him dead.”

For a second his thumb hovers over his phone to look back over at you and there he finds, the little girl he’s seen holding her walls up so high not even a plane can cross over, beginning to crumble in just the slightest way.

You look exhausted.

The makeup does not hide the bags under your eyes, it doesn’t hide the exhaustion, how drained you are over all of this. And maybe a part of that is due to your insisting to stay awake when you needed sleep but a big part of it is the mission itself.

Every mission is a little different from the other, but Jungkook has come to know that every one of them involves someone who has sucked all that sweet girl energy out of you. They’ve all done you wrong and it can’t be easy. It can’t be easy having to face all of them one by one, trying to deal with it all, trying to rid of them, and ultimately as a result, hurting yourself in the process.

“Kook?” Your eyes went closed for a second but upon his silence, you open them up again in order to look up at him, and due to your exhaustion, he finds the pretty girl he once loved all those years ago with the smallest voice as if calling out for him in a sense of help.

“I-I’ll call.” He’s flustered, slightly, but hits the call button with his thumb and walks towards the bathroom. “Stay awake, alright? I won’t be away for too long.”

He closes the door behind him to start looking around for something just as Namjoon picks up on the other end.

“Jungkook?”

“Y/N wanted me to tell you to come earlier.”

“Earlier?” It’s surprising on his end because just the night before, you told him to stick to the original plan. “Did something happen?” Of course something must’ve happened for you to change your mind so quickly.

In some ways you’re just as stubborn as he is, so he knows you aren’t someone who will change your mind that easily.

“This afternoon, uh…” Jungkook hesitates, not sure if it’s okay to relay him the news but something tells him you probably expect Jungkook to not stay silent about it to the boys. They share everything with each other after all, and if you really cared, you wouldn’t have let him anywhere near you after what happened. “Karl, you know, after touching her when she felt uncomfortable?” He did mention the incident a few weeks ago to Namjoon already. “Well, Y/N took up his invitation to tea in order to catch up and stuff and I assume she pissed him off.”

Somehow, Namjoon expected that. After all, you hinted at doing something reckless during your call with him. 

“I’m not sure what happened exactly because I wasn’t there but Karl hit her.”

“What?” There’s some shuffling on the other end. “What do you mean hit her?”

“Not just once. She has bruises as a result.”

“Bruises?”

“I should get back to her, she might fall asleep but I’ll catch up with you later.” He doesn’t wait for Namjoon’s reply before cutting the call off and returning to your side out of worry that leaving you alone for too long won’t be good, and the fact that you might have actually fallen asleep on him.

Surprisingly you’re still awake, though your eyes are as droopy as they were when he left you.

“Can you turn over on your back?” Is the first thing he asks of you and you obey, turning over. The bed dips a little when he takes a seat beside you and that’s when you feel he begins to take your lashes off.

“You know there’s a lot of processes that go into taking off makeup, right?” You tell him when he takes the other one off.

“I know, bub, I’ve done it before.”

Right.

He’s helped you before.

“So just stay still, yeah? You don’t have to do anything.”

You listen to the lure of his voice, as soft as the way he used to speak to you all those years ago, and let your eyes close as he begins to swipe the makeup wipe over your face. It’s gentle the way he does it, almost as gentle as Dasom, and although he’s a little clumsy and isn’t as fast as she is, he does his best during it all.

When the makeup wipe is done, you feel your hair pushed back and a band coming over to keep it out of the way, then some sort of cloth on your chest and tied behind your neck.

Warm water walks over your face. Bits of it, not too much, not too little, so that you don’t get too wet anywhere else, and then the feel of soapy foam begins to rub in circles all over your face. The massage feels nice and you almost feel your consciousness slipping away but you keep awake to the touch of Jungkook’s hands.

About a minute later, he soaks a washcloth into water and starts to wipe the cleanser off you so that you don’t have to sit up and wash it off with water yourself.

It takes a moment but eventually, he gets it done, and then you feel a wet cotton pad swipe over next.

Something about all of this, the steps he memorized either for you from the past or the fact that he now does it himself regularly, feels rather domestic and just…soft.

And in your sleepy and tired state, you feel anything but uncomfortable, lured in with the feeling of basking on top of clouds with your head bathing under the warm sun with light little pitter patters of rain sprinkling over you.

You don’t know why you enjoy this so much despite how different it feels from when Dasom does it for you, but knowing that your trust is beginning to leak outside of Reapers somehow brings a sort of comfort you never thought you’d feel.

It’s a little frightening because trusting is always scary, especially for people that had once broken it, but for some reason, it just…feels right.

Somehow.

And maybe that’s because you know they were never at fault in the first place, that they were just forced into making an unwanted decision. 

Jung Hoseok would probably be in the same position as they were were he to realize the truth all those years ago. If he hadn’t gotten hurt on that mission. If he hadn’t been forced to lay on the infirmary bed in order to recover. If he hadn’t stood away from the six of them.

Even still, as you’ve said it plenty of times before, just because someone doesn’t mean them doesn’t mean it wouldn’t hurt.

In the safe space that they provided you, you were kicked out of your own comfort and forced to return to the hell you thought you had escaped.

“Why do you not cry?” His voice keeps you awake and when you look up at him through your lashes, eyes feeling quite dreary and heavy, he finds himself pausing in his ministrations as he stares down at you who’s looking up directly at him.

“Why do you ask that?” You return a question, voice just as soft.

Jungkook’s eyes trail down your face. “Karl…he…” he didn’t see what happened but the aftermath of it is right before his eyes. “And Leehyun and…..” He presses his lips together. “You have..so much to cry for.”

“...Do I now?”

“Is there nothing left?” He asks, a hand brushing back small strands of hair that tries to block your eyes.

You don’t nod because you’re too tired to move so you nod through a blink. “It’s all dried up.”

From the water that he used to clean your face, a drop falls from your lash and trails down your cheek, mirroring what a teardrop looks like, and then you say, “But…if I knew how to cry……do you think you deserve to see them?”

He doesn’t reply but you have your answer.

He doesn’t feel worthy.

This Jungkook and the Jungkook you once knew long ago are the same in the way they always feel unworthy of something. No matter how many times you can assure him, he will always think there is something he can do better, that he is undeserving, that he can never be enough.

But unlike idiots who simply say “I don’t deserve you” and go about their days after breaking your heart, Jungkook says it and steps up to do what he can to try and prove to himself that he can be someone deserving.

He always did all that he could and when there came a point when he looked as if he could finally come to terms with being at peace with his love for you, it was ripped away from him all too soon and now he’s back to square one, trying to prove himself.

Even if it isn’t in the form of love.

Jungkook will always care.

But even still,

“I still hate you.”

It comes out soft, it comes out quiet, and a little timid and a little brave, but you hadn’t meant for it to come out.

If you were wide awake, if you weren’t in such a vulnerable state, you would have never spoken those words to him. But because your consciousness is on the verge of slipping away, you speak them out loud for him to hear.

“I know.” And he replies in the same voice, the same softness, quiet, and timid, and brave.

He doesn’t leave your side even after those exchanges uttered unto each other and you fall asleep next to his presence, next to his comfort, next to his warmth.

.

.

.

Jungkook wasn’t there when Taehyung said he witnessed you sleepwalking but he said that it wasn’t the sort of sleepwalking you’d see in a normal person. He said you looked like a ghost more than anything, and that at times, you’d just stand still in the middle of the room and not move an inch.

No, not a ghost. A corpse.

And now here he is, after endless refusal to sleep and finally allowing your eyes to stay closed, he witnesses what Taehyung had meant.

A corpse standing still in the middle of the room, blanket over her shoulders, eyes staring up at the dim sky outside the window, blank and without any hint of life in them.

He watches you from a distance, a furrow in his brows, with his tongue bitten back and his fists clenched by his side.

Subtle anger lies in his heart, brewing, not at you but towards the world that has made you into the sort of person you are today. Or maybe it had always been this way, maybe you had always been hurting and he just never noticed, maybe it was always like this all along and maybe, perhaps, they made it worse when they left you all alone to fend for your own self.

Feeding you to the wolves.

He’s angry not just at the world but at himself and Jungkook knows that if the truth were to ever leave your lips about what actually happened to you, about all the things that you’ve gone through, he knows that this hatred he feels right now is only but a small fraction waiting to build up before it all breaks into the tiniest little pieces.

Shattering in the way he had broken you.

Shattered.

The world can only do so much but he encouraged it by standing by, by letting it all fall down onto you, by letting himself be convinced that you’d be fine, that everything would be alright.

But nothing turned out alright.

In the days and months and years that followed your absence, they returned to how things were, returned to loving one another, accepting one another, forgiving one another. But in those days and months and years, he can only imagine what sort of events you had to face.

While they had each other, while they always had each other to lean on, did you have anyone by your side?

The Reapers may be one thing, supporting you and giving you their utmost loyalty, but did they ever hold power over the things that happened to you in the way Namjoon could have handled it? In the way he would have handled it?

“Y/N?” You don’t answer him when he calls out to you but he expected that so he walks on over to where you’re standing.

You’re as still as ever, and he approaches with a careful, watchful gaze, hesitant when he reaches a finger over to you. 

A small touch to the blanket, just over your shoulder, and when you don’t freak out or move away from him, he puts two fingers. 

Then another.

Then another.

And when you don’t react to his hand, he proceeds to place a hand on your head and press it towards his chest.

You don’t resist.

“Come on, let’s head back to bed, yeah?” And understanding that you’re okay with him even in this lifeless state of yours, because he knows your body is capable of telling the people you trust and don’t trust apart, he puts his other hand under your knees and picks you up to carry you over back to the bed.

You comply well with him despite your unresponsive self, and when he tucks you back in with the blanket pulled over your chest, he looks back to see your eyes staring straight toward him. Empty yet lonely.

Vacant.

Not at him but through him, and his heart aches a little at the sight.

“You’re alright now,” Jungkook whispers. “You’re alright.”

If Hoseok had been here, would he have been able to do a better job looking after you?

Jungkook wishes he could have been better.

[bicheetopuff]

(Ch. 336)

You know, this panel has always made me a little curious. Every other time we saw Izuku sparring with Katsuki (before the war started at least), he’d use blackwhip to defend himself, hence ‘catch-a-kacchan’ so I found it weird how Izuku didn’t even try to grab Katsuki. For like 100 chapters prior to this, he used blackwhip for everything and would eventually just leave it out incase he needed it quickly kinda like how Hawks utilized his feathers (when he had them) so I kinda just made a mental note about how weird it was that Izuku chose to evade instead of defend when he easily could’ve.

I also found it weird how quickly Izuku wanted to change the topic along with the distress on his face. I thought it was just a cheap and ooc way of explaining Todoroki’s new power quickly but, since it’s now confirmed that Izuku has PTSD about Katsuki’s sacrifice, what if Katsuki’s cluster move triggers that trauma response too?

The next time we see cluster used with Izuku present, Izuku actually does respond with blackwhip.

(Ch. 404)

He doesn’t use it in defense though, he uses it in almost possessive way by securing their hands together with it. But also, he doesn’t speak for this entire chapter. It could be explained away by the side effect of using gearshift and him not being able to breath but before now, he’s been more focused while in distress and was also speaking just fine before. Though, in these panels, and through the entire chapter, he seems almost delirious and in shock. He’s not even reacting to the lack of oxygen anymore.

He even starts ignoring Shigaraki in these moments. He’s stunned and mesmerized but now I’m starting to question whether he’s amazed or scared out of his mind for what might happen. With that uncertainty, all that I can say confidently is that he’s distracted.

(Season 7 ep. 4)

Arguably after chapter 404, he stops thinking straight and, honestly, gets a little sloppy. A few chapters after this, is when gets danger sense stolen and starts getting truly injured. He makes the decision to give away OFA and loses his arms. He reverts right back into his “I don’t care what happens to me” mentality that his class has been trying to get him to grow out of for a while.

He wasn’t mentally prepared for something to go wrong in this fight. He wasn’t mentally prepared to be pulled away, leaving Katsuki with Shigaraki. I thought it was just iffy writing that he’d mentally regress after Katsuki woke up instead of before but, it honestly makes a lot more sense now. He cared about what happened to himself because he needed to stay alive to ensure Katsuki’s revival. Once Katsuki woke up and he watched him fight AFO, he started being reckless again. He went back to viewing himself as nothing but a vessel for OFA because he believes OFA is the only thing that can beat AFO, hence why he trusted the vestiges when they said “we can fight him from the inside” (which I think was a silly decision. It’s noble in theory but it amounted to nothing because Izuku can’t win in this regressive state of self sacrifice anymore. Or at least, he shouldn’t since it’s such a big part of his arc.).

And now, with the most recent chapter with most of his classmates present it seems like he’s regretting that decision because he’s being reminded that people care about him. They showed up to support him regardless of already being hurt because he can’t win on his own. Eri mutilated herself to help him and if that doesn’t tell him that fighting without the intent of not dying is stupid, idk what will.

(Ch. 421)

He was about to just throw himself back into the fight with the same mindset as before if Aizawa didn’t stop him. He looks frustrated because he realizes the weight of what he’s been doing and how looking up to AM and the previous vestiges shouldn’t be his role models right now considering all of their fates. He’d just be continuing OFAs curse like Katsuki’s been worried about for a hundred something chapters.

In conclusion, this post was very unfocused but I can’t wait to see Izuku kick ass and for Katsuki to show back up because with the impact he’s had on Izuku, I DESPERATELY need them to talk. Most of this post may have very well been a stretch but, let me be delusional please.

[worldbeyondtheworld]

The meta + interplay about Nothing and Everything, Stagnation and Change, Stability and Unrest of Slay the Princess are so good.

Of course, the Slayer is more often put on the back-foot and less dangerous than the Princess. He embodies the concept of Nothing. In some cultures, people think of Nothing as "small, insignificant" or "not what you're looking for". If you have Nothing, many people think you are poor (in resources or in choices or both) and you are incapable of changing your situation for the better.

People call somebody else "you are Nothing" as an insult. People often think "I am Nothing" when they feel insecure or self-loathing. This reflects the Voice of the Broken well as an example.

Everything is often thought as "grandiose, powerful". If you have Everything, you are powerful and rich. If you think "I have Everything" or "I am Everything", whether because you're entitled and / or as a trauma reaction, it can give you a superiority complex. You believe yourself to be more worth, more deserving of what you want, than the people around you. You can do Everything. The Tower comes to mind.

The Slayer is often less powerful than the Princess because the Narrator believes the Princess to be dangerous and doesn't understand who he's trying to control through the Slayer.

The Slayer is often less powerful because each Princess wants to escape and some of them seem to be aware that they can manipulate the Slayer's perception to become more powerful. They might be unconsciously aware of their godhood.

The Slayer is often less powerful than the Princess because they don't know what or who they are.

And then you remember the interplay I mentioned at the beginning.

While she changes with the Slayer's perception and changes them in return upon the various Chapter 2s, she stays stable. Even when the Slayer changes things up again, a different Princess only appears in Chapter 3 and her perspective is a continuation of how she thinks and feels in Chapter 2. And the Shifting Mound refers to each perspective as something that happened to her. This is reflection of the parts of the Long Quiet she contains.

It's improbable that the Prisoner would ever become like the Damsel, even though you they are twin / counterpart chapters. The Tower has an identity crisis if you slay her. The Eye of the Needle is so consumed with her need to fight the Slayer that if they manage to lure her outside, she doesn't even notice that she's free unless prompted.

The Stranger appears because so every route happens at once and undo each other with their own changes. Everything happening is the same as Nothing happening.

Stability is needed for Change to even occur and mean something. And once you've changed, you've set yourself on a defined route. Limited. It's a like with stem cells (simplified) - each stem cell can become all kind of cells. These specialized cells can only divide into a limited number of other cells. This process is called cellular differentiation. Some animals have a process called dedifferentiation where cells lose their specialization and revert to an earlier state.

Back to when Everything happens, Nothing happens. If you expand the idea of what Nothing is, the contrasting idea is:

Where Nothing Is, Everything can happen.

The Slayer has at least two Voices at the beginning of each chapter, the Hero and the Narrator. At least one more Voice per chapter appears, more during specific routes. They persist until the Shifting Mound fetches the Princess and the Mirror appears as the doorway. They can hold multiple mindsets at once.

When a route resets and the Slayer forgets, they are a blank slate once more. New opportunities, new perspectives are possible because their mind is empty of their previous preconceptions.

Apropos: One of the ways to defeat the Razor without getting further hurt is for the Slayer to empty their mind of all of the Voices including the Hero and the Narrator (!). The Slayer removes all distractions of what they should do and becomes Nothing (the closest to the Long Quiet before their Ascension). Before, more and more Voices appeared as they struggled to find a way to overcome her.

No matter what the Razor throws now at the Slayer, they can't be hurt. They repel all of her attacks, her blades, everything she stands for. It gives her an identity crisis. The Slayer is Nothing, but she can't hurt them. What does that make her? What is their role, what is hers? Fittingly, the Chapter 4 (!) name is called "The Empty Cup".

This also relates to the Eye of the Needle. Simplified, the Slayer showed her a different way and role, and she resists the idea of changing her mind.

[thirsty4villains]

Cool Heat

Summary: You're an assistant for the Avengers. Loki has been hiding up in his room for the past week. You go to check on him and he's reverted back to his Jotun form, but he's not quite himself. The two of you discover that Jotuns go into cycles of heat, and Loki hasn't been in his Jotun form for over a millennia...

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Mentions of dubcon

Tags: Loki lives in Stark Tower with the Avengers, PIV, smut, humor, romance, Jotun!Loki, dom!Loki, spanking, more tags to be added

Find me on AO3, Wattpad. Previous chapters/other Loki fics on Tumblr by me here.

Notes: THANK YOU GUYS FOR BEING SO PATIENT, I'm sorry this chapter took so long to roll out. Real life stuff, I hope y'all understand. Please enjoy!

Tagged users: @nyxxharmonia @mischief2sarawr @drunkbirdbug @lorelibrarianlizbit @strawberry--fawn @thenotoriouserg @hereforsmutbcicantgetenough @salvinaa @bellajg21 lorielulu7 

CHAPTER 4

You woke up feeling more rested than you did most mornings. If you knew Loki was this good at sex you may have hit him up earlier. Asshole or no, he knew what he was doing. Last night’s events replayed in your head repeatedly: your dream that wasn’t a dream, your conversation, and ultimately the conclusion. They spun around in your head as you tried to assess because it was hard to believe that you had sex with Loki. You also wondered, was it wrong that you weren’t angry at him for having sex while you were unconscious? It definitely wasn’t right of him, but you’d been feeling so lonely and horny – horny for him – that you didn’t care. You quite enjoyed it, actually.

After mulling these thoughts, you took a shower, got dressed, and threw the sheets in the washer. It was nearing 11:00 am on a Tuesday. Shit, you were supposed to submit some reports to Coulson by nine!

You ran to the elevator and went back up to the penthouse. Gathering your paperwork and opening your laptop, you opened up the S.H.I.E.L.D. database and began uploading the work you should have submitted two hours ago. Thankfully, there were no text messages, emails in your inbox, or missed calls on your phone, so Coulson must be preoccupied this morning. Hopefully he wouldn’t notice the time stamp that read 11:28am.

In this moment you were eternally grateful the majority of your work was remote because if you came into S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters three hours late because you slept in, Fury would have your head.

With that problem finished, you went to check on Loki. Back down in the bedroom areas, you stood in the hallway and knocked on his bedroom door. A sense of deja vu swept over you.

“Come in,” the god’s voice said behind the door.

The knob turned and you entered Loki’s room. He sat on his bed, staring at the wall opposite him. He seemed not all there.

“Loki?” you asked. “How are you feeling?”

“Not worse, but not better, either.”

“So you’re still..?”

“Still enormously frustrated sexually? Yes.”

A wave of insecurity washed over you. “It wasn’t… bad, was it?”

He shook his head. “Quite the contrary, it was exactly what I needed. I felt better, instantly. But it came back as soon as I awoke this morning. The fundamental issue I am facing, however, is this dreaded blue color – and these horns. I cannot will this form away with magic no matter how hard I try.”

You apologized for his state.

“Are you not disgusted by me?” the god asked. “After last night?”

“I already told you that it’s okay, you weren’t yourself,” you said.

“I also meant… after.”

“Like, the actual sex?”

He nodded.

“Are you not disgusted by this brutish, carnal form? How rough I was with you. These horns… these claws…” He sneered after looking at his own nails.

“No.” You blushed. “It was really hot, actually.”

For the first time in days, he laughed an actual, genuine laugh. “Sincerely? You human women are so strange. No Asgardian woman in their right mind would bed a Jotun.”

“Their loss,” you said.

He furrowed his eyebrow at you but also, perhaps there was a hint of a smile?

“No matter, my predicament is… URGH!”

Out of nowhere, Loki curled his right hand into a fist and punched the wall. Little pieces of drywall flew outward. Loki retracted his hand and a fist-sized hole was left behind in its wake. He dusted off a thin layer of powder from his knuckles.

You jumped back. “What was that?!”

Loki’s shoulders heaved. “I don’t know! That’s the problem! I don’t know. I have no clue why this is happening now, and why it’s so drastic. I get these changes in mood, like I’m nothing but an adolescent again who cannot even master his own emotions. I feel virile yet emasculated. We had intercourse, so why was it not enough?”

He punched the wall a second time. With gritted teeth and labored breaths he stared at it and you were unsure if the god was lost in thought or would lose his temper entirely. You watched his pecs and the dark blue ridges upon his body move up and down with his breaths. His lean arms, the biceps on them; those horns, those eyes…

Okay, snap back to reality. Loki’s having a crisis. Sex is the only thing that made him feel himself again, even if it was just for a few hours. Like he said, he was in heat; maybe just one go isn’t enough to get the job done.

“Well, we know what we have to do, then.” You outstretched your arms, offering yourself.

He turned from the wall. “What are you –”

“What position do you want me in, Loki?” You interrupted, asserting yourself. You fought the blush creeping up your cheeks. “On my back? On my side? Do you want me to blow you first? Pick one. You want to fix this, right?”

Loki stood there in shock; examining your face, your body language. Or was he checking you out? He dropped his fist that was prepping to punch the wall and his lips stretched into a devious grin.

“On the bed, all fours.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” you replied.

Stripping yourself of your clothes, you approached his bed, staying in the crawling position upon his mattress.

To your side he stripped as well, and he was already rock hard. That blueish purple cock sprang from his pants, rearing to go. He climbed onto the bed behind you, examining your backside. You jolted forward as his cold hands touched your thighs. You’d forgotten how cold he felt. His icy fingers traced the smooth skin of your legs.

Then out of nowhere, he spanked you. A cold, red handprint decorated your bottom.

You gave a small screech, jolting forward again – both from the low temperature and the sudden smack.

“You like that?” he asked.

“Mm-hmm,” you muttered, nodding.

Another smack, and this next screech was mixed with a moan.

“Your assertiveness was quite endearing, but remember your tone when speaking to your king.”

He spanked your ass again.

“My – my king?” you asked.

“Yes, your king. Did I not mention to you the other day that I was kept as a bargain by Odin? I wasn’t any Jotun child, I was Laufey’s son, the king of the Jotuns.”

Another spanking. You felt yourself grow wet amidst the pain.

“N – no, you didn’t mention that part.”

“Though I failed to conquer Earth, and Thor is the first heir to Asgard, since Laufey is dead I am still a king in my own right – of Jotunheim.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, my king.”

He gave you one last spanking, a lighter smack, a playful one. “I forgive you,” he said, lowering himself over your back, so his lips could graze your ear. He placed his hands on your butt, to soothe the irritated skin. The iciness felt good but you also squirmed due to your skin being so sensitive there.

With his new position, his cock rested against your cunt. You prevented yourself from lurching forward. He rubbed the cold member against your lips.

“Now your king shall claim what is his.”

Without further warning, Loki penetrated your opening, sinking completely within you. His chilly member made you clench around him. You gasped as you acclimated to him. Oh god, he was big. You didn’t know how you could forget since the last time you fucked him was literally hours ago, yet you were still in awe. His cool, dextrous fingers brushed your hips, finding the perfect place to grip in order to rail you. Then, he moved within you, and you already felt your juices coating him and your own thighs. Completely at his mercy, you allowed him to take all of you, as you kneeled on the bed, all fours, like an animal. He slipped in and out of your cunt at a deliciously fast pace, hitting the right spot every time. Your arms barely kept upright as you tried to keep up the weight of yourself and your balance as the god of mischief rocked your body.

While fucking you, Loki removed one hand from your hip to grasp your hair and tugged. Your head tilted backward so that you were forced to look straight forward instead of below. On one hand you could count how many times you were in Loki’s room, and you didn’t realize until now that he had a mirror mounted above the bed frame, so when he pulled your hair you were forced to look at the scene. You, your tits hanging, on hands and knees, and the blue god of mischief with one hand fisted in your hair and his cock taking you for all you’re worth. His mouth flashed a devious smile as your eyes connected through the mirror, and his red eyes gleamed of hunger and dominance. He tightened his fist in your hair and spoke.

“Enjoying the view?”

In your pleasure you found it difficult to form words.

He spanked your ass. The combination of that, your hair, the view ahead, and your cunt sent sparks through your body. A high-pitched moan escaped your lips.

“I asked you a question.”

Your legs quaked like jello, but you managed to say: “Yes!”

The light in the god’s eyes danced. Another smile graced his face, “Good.” 

He released your hair. Your head fell forward again, your arms collapsed underneath you, and now your face was buried in the mattress. With nothing but your ass in the air, Loki continued to drive into your pussy, chuckling at the state of you; tired, splayed out, and completely surrendered to him. He gave another playful spanking on your behind.

You gathered the blankets underneath, balling them in your fists as Loki delivered your pleasure unto you. All you could do was hold on, listen to the sounds of his hips slapping your skin and the wet noises of furious lovemaking, and praise his body into the bed. Your legs, before jello, were now an autumn leaf shaking in the wind and you knew you were so close. Loki dug his claws into your hips, claiming you once again and you were gone. Shouting into the blankets, your cunt tensed before finally releasing, and you climaxed on the god’s cold, pulsing cock; riding the waves and yet somehow keeping your ass in the air.

Your climax, however, was the catalyst for his own and Loki burst within you, sending a final few thrusts into your hole. He filled you again, uttering his own release to the heavens. Then you both collapsed onto the bed.

When he found the strength to roll off you, you excused yourself to his bathroom to clean up. After that, as well as re-brushing your hair and getting dressed, you entered his bedroom again to find him on the bed reading a book. Loki was still naked as the day he was born. One long, lean blue leg was crossed over the other as he lay back. Your eyes traced the ridges of his Jotun form up along his toned body, then up his face and ending at the curve of his horns. His eyelashes fluttered against his ruby-red eyes. How in the world did he see himself ugly in this form?

You spoke up: “It’s getting close to afternoon. I’m gonna make breakfast. Want anything?”

Loki looked up from his book and nodded. “Yes, I’ll be up in a minute. I’ll have whatever you are having.”

“Cool,” you said, returning upstairs to the penthouse.

In the kitchen you pulled out the cookware and ingredients to make scrambled eggs and hash browns. The items sizzled on the pans, filling the kitchen with the aroma of eggs, potatoes, and spices. Your stomach growled in approval and restlessness. Loki joined shortly behind you, now clothed in his usual garb of black and green. His horns stood high and mighty, even regal, atop his head, cutting through the air.

“This is the first time I have been out in this state at midday in nearly a fortnight,” Loki remarked. He looked around the room, almost as if he’d forgotten what it looked like bathed in noon’s light. 

“That’s rough. I’m sorry,” you said. “How do you feel now?”

“Better – much. I had thought I would need intercourse once and this would go away. Now, I am not so sure. I am hoping… soon.”

You nodded. “Yeah, especially since we don’t know when the others will come back from that mission, and if you’re still ‘sick’,” you airquoted. “...by the time they get back, I’m pretty sure they’re going to start getting nosy, maybe even suspicious.”

Loki growled, not enthused by that thought. A slight tingle tickled your southern area. Instantly, you wondered: were you an asshole for being attracted to his irritability? It’s not like you meant to, but the growling was, well…

“Do you need help with the cooking?” Loki said, interrupting your thoughts.

“Yes, thank you.” Good distraction from that moral dilemma. Thank you, Loki. “Actually, could you help clean up? Put some of the things away for me while I watch the stove?”

The god nodded and proceeded to help with his tasks. Cabinets were opened and closed as he put the spices away, he went and washed the silverware you weren’t using anymore, and threw the eggshells and other trash in the garbage. The food would be ready in just a few minutes.

The kitchen grew quiet again when he finished. So quiet, you thought he may have slinked off somewhere – to the bathroom or something. Until you felt a pair of hands on your hips.

“And you are well after our encounters?” he asked, his voice low and husky. His cool breath tickled your ear. 

One of his hands moved lower, cupping your ass slightly. A jolt of electricity flowed through you. He had you pinned between his front and the kitchen counter.

“The eggs,” you said in protest. 

“What about the eggs?” he quipped, squeezing you lightly.

“They’ll burn. Don’t distract me.”

“Then don’t get distracted.”

Loki proceeded to move his other hand to your other ass cheek, kneading both hands on your behind through your shorts. His mouth lowered closer to you, gliding his cold tongue against your neck. The hairs on your arms stood on their ends, goosebumps budding. The god licked slowly, deliberately. You shivered and Loki chuckled lightly against your skin. He bared his teeth -- his fangs -- and grazed the points over your carotid.

You tried to pay attention to the cooking food; flipping over the eggs, watching the potatoes, adjusting the heat as necessary. However, you were facing much difficulty ignoring the rising heat within your body.

Loki switched between teeth and tongue, lapping and nipping at your neck. You gasped when he bit your earlobe, smoothing over the pain with another lick. One of his hands moved to your front, sneaking underneath your shorts and underwear to play with you. His fingers toyed with your slit, wetting them in your slick and using his lubricated digits to circle your clit. You did your best to not lurch into the hot stove with his cold hands pleasuring you. Your hands gripped the handle on the oven as you moaned aloud.

“I told you not to get distracted,” the god teased. You opened your eyes – which you didn’t realize you’d even closed and quickly removed the eggs from the heat. The ends browned a bit, but they were nowhere close to burned; just a bit more cooked than you’d like them to be.

Your hands returned to the oven’s door handle, bracing yourself so your legs wouldn’t give in. Loki teased you mercilessly: one hand on your ass, the other playing with your clit, and his mouth, tongue, and lips attacking your neck and ear. You could already feel the hickey forming.

“Turn your head toward me,” the god urged.

You did, and met his gaze. He stole a kiss, deep and wanton, and cold; deliciously and illicitly cold. As you kissed, you realized this was your first one with him. A bit backwards, given you’d had sex twice before even kissing, but not unwanted. No, not unwanted at all. His kiss made you lightheaded and shivery, especially as he dove his tongue into your mouth. All this while he massaged your clit, soft and engorged and wet.

When the kiss broke, you took the hash browns off the heat too. “It’s hard to not get distracted when I can’t even see what’s in front of me.”

“Well, there’s no more distracting then, given the food’s done.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Loki yanked your shorts and underwear down your legs. They pooled at your ankles. He barely gave you any time to shake them off before parting your legs for him, exposing your opening for him, and he entered you swiftly. You gave a choked sound as you adjusted to him, his thick, chilly, irresistible cock planted within you. His hands moved; one on hip and the other under your shirt to pinch your nipples.

“I thought you were good,” you croaked.

“Oh, I’m more than good now,” Loki uttered as he began to move within you.

“I mean… We just fucked… not even twenty minutes ago, and already… Mmmf.” You bit your lip as he hit that sweet spot within you.

“What can I say? I finished cleaning up, then I began watching you. Your shorts barely covering your ass, accentuating your thighs, how your hair cascades down your shoulders. Something like a switch flipped inside me. I had to have you. You won’t deny me now, surely?”

“N – no.” Your thighs pressed together and your eyes shut closed. With anyone else this would be too much, but with him you didn’t find yourself growing tired, nor sore, nor overstimulated. Something about Loki, his touch, his voice made you want his sex just as much as he required it for his sanity.

So he fucked you there, on the kitchen counter, in front of the stove. The god of mischief thrusted into you, his chest pressed against your back. The chill of his skin radiated from his chest through your shirt, and of course his cold hands on your breasts and cock buried inside you aroused your senses and your attention. He drove his cock upward, and the best you could do was hold on for dear life as he fucked his divine jotun lechery into you. As they did when you were taken from behind, your thighs shook, your pussy clenched, and with a snap Loki spilled his frigid seed into you. His fingernails dug into your hips and teeth sunk into your neck as he completed his final thrusts, filling you with his load.

The two of you took a moment to catch your breaths. His chest rose and fell against your back, his wintry breath panting upon your skin. When he removed himself, a wet plop noise sounded as his cock exited you. His seed within you trickled down your legs, droplets of him dripping onto the tile floor. You moaned impatiently upon his removal, as you were still flushed with arousal. 

“Patience, woman,” the god spoke. “I am not yet done.”

Without warning, he grabbed you and moved you to an empty space on the counter. Placing you with your back against the granite, he lined his still erect cock with your entrance. His hands grabbed your ankles, resting them on the dip of his shoulders and again, he drove into you.

You screamed.

The frost giant god railed you with his cock, with complete and total access to your cunt, filling you to the brim. Within seconds, he hit the sweet spot within you at the perfect, fast, desperate pace, and you came on him. Your walls pulsed and contracted as you rode his cold member through your orgasm, screaming at the ceiling of Stark Tower. All the muscles in your body relaxed and you finally opened your eyes to see the face of a demon grinning lasciviously at you. His raven black hair rested upon his shoulders, a pretty contrast to his sapphire skin, and you watched him as he fucked you to a second completion.

A third time today – or was it fourth, since technically you fucked after midnight last night, and then this morning, and now… Your brain was too addled but yes, four was probably right. For a fourth time today, Loki came inside you, his member pulsating within you, ejaculating and filling you once again.

He bent down and bit your neck before separating. His scarlet eyes roamed over your body, entirely used and spent. He chuckled to himself. You must have been quite a sight at the moment, with your hair every which way and utterly drenched of him.

With a flick of his wrist, a golden hue emanated from his hands and then disappeared – the mess with it. All of his cum – on the counter, inside you, on the floor, vanished as if it had never existed. With a light head you carefully sat up and jumped down from the counter.

“You look like you’re about to faint,” Loki said.

“I’ll be fine, I just need food. It’s not customary for me to fuck multiple times before breakfast. I’m on an empty stomach right now and I just came three times in half an hour.”

You redressed yourself and plated the food. “Great, well, it’s almost cold now. You interested in cold eggs? ‘Cause that’s what we’re getting.”

“Are you saying you regret our tryst?” he teased.

“No. Yes… I don’t know. No, no I don’t regret it, but I don’t want cold breakfast either!”

You plopped your plate on the dining table harder than was necessary and sat in the chair, ready to eat your sad breakfast.

The god flicked his wrist again, and instantly steam emanated from your food. The smell of warm food filled your nostrils again and you devoured your breakfast.

“Would a ‘thank you’ hurt?”

“Fank you,” you said, mouth half-full.

Loki quirked an eyebrow at the utter impropriety. He redressed himself and joined you at the table.

“We are probably going to need to fuck once breakfast is finished. I’m already feeling the urge again.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” you muttered. This was the worst best problem you’ve ever encountered.

And he was true to his word. When the dishes were loaded into the dishwasher, Loki had you on the counter again.

[sadoeuphemist]

If in danger of being captured, the Cuarrion will take on the appearance of its last victim, assuming it has already consumed enough of their body to facilitate the transformation. It will speak with its victim's tongue, show recognition in their eyes, throw wide their arms in embrace and cry out with all their heart, having been rescued naked and quivering from the beast's den.

Thus discovered, the Cuarrion will allow itself to be led back to civilization to be embraced and wept over and tended to, steadily convalescing, wearing its victim's footsteps to trace out their old habits. As the attentiveness of its companions wanes, the Cuarrion will take the first opportunity to escape back into the wild, taking on its true form again, usually claiming another victim along the way.

If, however, the Cuarrion is kept under constant scrutiny, it will find no opportunity to revert and instead will settle deeper and deeper into its disguise. It no longer needs to hunt: it bears its victim's stomach and intestines and so can subsist happily on their diet. The gestures of familiarity, rather than being second nature to it, will simply become its nature. There are stories of Cuarrion who have lived for decades in the same village, borne children, presided over local festivals, lived to bounce hosts of grandchildren on their knee, been interred in the village cemetery with all the honors befitting an elder of their repute.

There are also stories of Cuarrion who, after decades of peaceful cohabitation, have reverted to their monstrous natures for seemingly no reason at all. When a reason can be located, it is usually some sort of violent shock to the self: a stroke, an assault, an infidelity, the death of a loved one, the uncovering of another Cuarrion.

The ethics of keeping a Cuarrion in captivity are hotly debated. It is difficult to blame the family of a child slain by the Cuarrion, who, having recovered a child in the exact image of theirs, calling out familiar names in a familiar tongue, miraculously alive and whole, will insist on treating it exactly as their child.

Scholars of the Cuarrion's anatomy maintain that even if some vital portion of the victim remains within the beast, it will be inevitably digested over time, as evidenced by the fact that victims who have gone missing weeks prior are found gibbering and semi-feral and must be rehabilitated back into their previous states, if ever; whereas a victim who has gone missing just that day will be found talkative and spry and seemingly unharmed. If the Cuarrion can copy a person identically, the scholars say, it is only through habit and mimicry, blood congealing into the shape of its mold.

If the Cuarrion themselves are asked for input, opinions vary. Most are circumspect. Many prefer not to discuss it at all. The elders among them, who have lived out their lives, tend to speak more freely. "Yes, I consumed the child I was to become who I am, a long time ago, a long time ago," says one, eyes clouded and distant, remembering. "A tragedy, yes. But, eh, so do we all."

[ataraxiaspainting]

Hi, thanks for sending te rules ^^. For the request, can I please have yan mermaid Ruan Mei x fem human reader one shot? Basically, Ruan Mei meets a human and she find them interesting, but later discovers that the reader is dating. So Ruan Mei decides why not to kidnap her future darling.

please ruan mei is so pretty...... I CAN FIX HER GUYS!!

Birth of Venus.

Yan (Mermaid) Ruan Mei x F Reader.

Synopsis: Legends say the ocean’s waters are salty because of the tears of mermaids.

Warnings: Yandere themes and kidnapping.

Word Count: 700.

*~*~*~*

Upon catching sight of you for the first time, she finds herself at a loss for thoughts and emotions.

For her to lose sight of the former is as rare as her finding something not covered in rust and fading away with age on the bottom of the ocean floor. But, like those priceless moments, with her fingers gliding above and beneath a small mountain of gold coins in a treasure chest she spent more than a day trying to unlock, she could not bear herself to let go, to let something so precious go to waste. Time is of the essence though, because as much as she wants to simply take you beneath the waters with her hands, the scales on them never scarred with the color purer than that of the sky above you both, she has to wait for the right time, for everything to be set up accordingly. It is what she does best, after all, planning and soon discarding everything that provides little value to her, and perhaps soon to you, because, in the end, it is not uncommon for her to lose her emotions. They hold no significance at present or in the future, and she will release them once more in her quest for everything she desires. Thus, she patiently waits, concealed beneath the water, listening to the gentle sound of your footsteps on the sand and the joyful exclamations that escape your lips whenever you discover another seashell she intentionally left on the shoreline for you.

Everything and everyone she encounters, regardless of whether they are from the sea or the land above, bow down to her and her radiance, even creatures similar to her both in physique and intellectual prowess. She hopes the same will be what you do too, but she does not. Despite how ironic it sounds, you are the breath of fresh air she never had. She desires for you to remain unchanged, even if she resorts to preserving you as ice submerged deep beneath the ocean, thus ensuring your eternal presence. Nevertheless, she sincerely hopes this extreme measure will never be necessary.

She will try her best to ensure such.

Despite her emotions being minuscule, barely the size of a single caviar bead, she finds herself unable to articulate this indescribable sensation that threatens to overwhelm all logic she has.

Because when she caught sight of you for what felt like the hundredth time, she saw you kiss someone else by the shoreline, next to the special shell she obtained after hours upon hours of searching just for you.

For what felt like the first time in all her life, she felt sorrow, then anger, and hate. Her emotions finally gave way after all these months of observing you from afar, and tears gave way. But she doesn't know what to do now. All planning, what she has always been good at, along with her logic, which she also has been exemplary at, has all been washed away by the tides of fear, envy, and sadness. After what felt like an eternity of weeping over her loss, making the seawater get even saltier because of her tears, she concluded. She must act now, or you will be forever out of her grasp. She needs to take immediate action to regain her rationality and control her emotions once more. Despite her love for you, Ruan Mei will always be self-centered, and this fundamental aspect of her character is unlikely to change, even if she desires it. It is simply a matter of time until everything reverts to its previous state.

So, as you venture near the coast, captivated by the enchanting melodies emerging from the sea, she springs into action. With astonishing speed, so swift that you won't perceive it until it's too late, she delivers a powerful blow and drags you under the waters, where you will stay forevermore.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

WIBTA if I asked my mom to stop keto-fying recipes?

this is either gonna be a complete non-issue or get people mad at me, i can tell lmao. unfortunately this has been bugging me for weeks. :D

To be clear, I'm almost 25, but I and my adult/teenage siblings still live with my parents bc the economy is ass. Also, Mom hasn't been doing it to every recipe…yet…but the ones she has changed have been recipes where a carbohydrate is an important part of the main meal.

For instance, replacing the potatos in a beef-carrot-potato stew with a rutabaga.

Mom's been on a modified keto diet for a while now, and while Dad is the only one intentionally doing it with her, the rest of us are aware of her diet and are generally chill about it. For a while, we would have nights where the parents would have Thing A, which was diet-compliant, and the rest of us would have Thing B, which was not. Those of us who are not dieting are all old enough to make things for ourselves, by the way, and that's usually what happens. For most of these "split meals," one parent usually doesn't wind up cooking two meals, one of which they can't even eat.

The stew is usually a "split" meal that gets made by one person who does most of the prep just by virtue of knowing the recipe, then one person who peels and chops the potatoes, and then one who wrangles the peeling and chopping of the rutabaga. The rutabaga then gets combined with a proportionate amount of The Rest, and those of us who aren't dieting are welcome to taste-test it. I've tried it, and the rutabaga's okay, I guess, but quite a bit too sweet and non-safe-food-y for me in the context of the stew, especially when I'm so used to potatoes. Wrangling the rutabaga is a bit more fun than eating it.

…except the most recent time we had the stew, Mom and Dad made an executive decision and just made a full-family pot of rutabaga stew without really seeing if everyone else was on board with it. Two of my siblings seemed fine with it, one is an enigma on a good day so I don't even know how they felt about it, and I hated it. I didn't get the chance to say so, however, between everyone else complimenting the altered stew and the conversation quickly switching to something else.

Unfortunately, our parents have decided that we will be making the stew with rutabagas only going forward.

Not "the family has decided."

The parents have decided. For adults and a teenager. Not for little kids.

Since then, in other conversations where recipes come up, such as conversations about the teenager's recent baking kick, Mom has been mentioning keto versions of whatever's being talked about in the nonspecific way that I'm pretty sure is her hinting/telling us that we should make it. In the context of teen baking, a keto chocolate cake, or keto cookies.

Look, I'm not here to debate the worth of a diet or lack thereof. I have plenty of those opinions and I'm not going to change them or let them distract from the core of the matter: when any of us are making food for the others, why are we letting two people's diets dictate what the rest of us should eat? If we're making something specifically to align with the keto diet, then that's a parent snack/meal. If we're not, it's a "kids" snack/meal. It should be as simple as that. Why make a full-family-sized meal if it's going to be pushing low/no carbs onto people who, historically, have not wanted to or needed to drop carbs? (It's me, I'm people. I know, I'm not really subtle, am I?)

I'm considering, the next time the stew comes up as a dinner plan, asking what a single-sized portion of the potatoes would be and just making it for myself. Given I have the spoons to do so that night, anyway. However, I really don't want to insult Mom's family recipe (which…she's already altered…and I would be reverting to its previous state…) or her cooking skills (which haven't lessened, even if I personally think her ingredient choices are a bit lacking lately).

What are these acronyms?

[buckyispunk]

Falling

Aloha Chapter Three~ Bucky Barnes x f!Reader (no use of Y/N)

read previous parts here!

masterlist

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (no use of Y/N)

Summary: The events of Ocean Blue from Bucky's perspective, aka Bucky fights to win you back.

A/N: So so soooo sorry for the longer-than-expected wait everyone! Thank you to all who have been sticking it out with me! I hope this chapter makes up for it! Also - discontinuing tags after this chapter, follow @buckyispunkwrites and turn on notifs!!

Warnings: oral sex (f receiving), fingering, discussion of unhealthy relationships, slight overstimulation, dom!Bucky, drinking, insecure reader, please lmk if I missed anything

Word Count: 4.6k

“Dude,” Sam shoves Bucky’s shoulder, “I’m sure she’ll be out soon, you don’t have to keep staring at the door.”

Bucky reverts his attention to his friends, who are now laughing at his infatuated state. He debates for a second whether or not it’s worth it to think of a clever comeback, but he can’t bring himself to care enough. All Bucky cares about is when he’ll next be able to hear your laugh and watch the way your eyes sparkle in the sunlight. All he cares about right now is being with you. 

And that scares Bucky. Absolutely terrifies him. The last time Bucky felt this way about someone, she betrayed every ounce of trust he ever put in her and Bucky had wound up wishing he never even met her in the first place. But even though he’s only known you a few days, something tells Bucky you’re nothing like his ex. 

All he manages is a mumbled shut up. 

He turns from his friends to go order another round, noting that Sam and Steve’s bottles are almost empty as well. As he leans against the bar waiting for the bartender, he feels a tap on his shoulder.

Bucky grins as he turns around. 

“Been waiting for you, do-”

He cuts himself off when he realizes it’s not you he’s talking to, but some blonde woman he doesn’t recognize. 

“Sorry,” he shakes his head, “thought you were someone else,” he explains, smile disappearing from his face. 

“No worries,” she flases her white teeth at him, “I actually think your friend over there is kinda cute. The one that hasn’t stopped laughing for the last five minutes.”

Bucky sighs, relieved that the woman isn’t hitting on him. He’s never been great at rejecting people. 

“Sam’s definitely something,” Bucky tilts his head in amusement.

“I was gonna buy him a drink, what does he like? Couldn’t see his bottle from where I’m sitting.”

“I was just ordering us another round, I’ll just give you his.”

Bucky turns back to the bartender and orders three beers for him and his friends.

“Thanks. Now let’s just hope he doesn’t fall out of his chair again when I give it to him.”

Bucky laughs as he remembers when, a few minutes ago, Sam had fallen to the ground laughing at Steve’s insistence that the Giants are super bowl bound this year. In that moment, as he listened to Sam’s hysterical laughter and Steve’s continued argument, he found himself wondering whether you’d be laughing along with Sam or if you were a die-hard Giants fan, like Steve. 

He’s realized there’s so many things he doesn’t know about you: your favorite kind of flower, how you spend your time on rainy Sundays, where you grew up, whether you eat pumpkin or apple pie on Thanksgiving. And this realization has sparked an endless curiosity in Bucky. He has a sudden urge to ask you every possible question he can think of and then memorize each and every answer you tell him until he’s familiarized himself with every nook and cranny of your beautiful mind. 

The bartender sets the drinks on the bar, snapping Bucky out of his trance. 

“Have at it,” Bucky hands the woman the beer and she heads toward their seats. 

Sam and Steve usually have no trouble finding women wherever the three of them go. Occasionally Bucky would get hit on at the bar or at a ball game, usually only indulging them for a minute or two before escaping to the bathroom. He had gone on a few dates over the years, but those only discouraged him.

One time his date had gotten so drunk that Bucky had to practically carry her to her door, where she then invited Bucky inside with clear intentions - an offer which Bucky had politely declined, of course. The girl after that had looked up from her phone no more than five times throughout the night, making halfhearted conversation as she scrolled through social media before thanking Bucky for dinner and ordering an Uber home. Needless to say, Bucky hasn’t had the best dating experiences since he’s been stateside. 

Sam, on the otherhand, has a whole folder on his phone filled with different dating apps - Kinder? Tumble? - he doesn’t remember what they’re called. For the life of him, Bucky can’t understand the appeal of swiping through woman after woman and judging them based off of a couple of pictures. Cliches be damned, he needs the butterflies in his stomach that he can’t seem to get rid of when he looks into a girl’s eyes for the first time, testing her name out on his lips, the involuntary grin on his face after making her blush, the excitement of trying to earn her phone number so he can ask her out. He wants a Hallmark-esque story to tell about how he met his future wife. 

At that, Bucky’s thoughts reflexively drift back to you and he turns to eye the door again. Seeing no sign of you, he lets out a sigh and heads back toward his friends. He sees the woman all but clinging onto Sam, who doesn’t mind one bit - if the grin on his face is anything to go by. Bucky hands Steve his beer and sits, passing the time discussing football with Steve. 

Another twenty or so minutes go by before Bucky gets sick of watching Sam not-so-discreetly exchange dirty talk with the woman. Bucky finishes his beer and stands up to leave once Steve heads to the bathroom. Sam doesn’t see Bucky walk away - his tongue is too deep into the woman’s mouth for him to notice anything else. 

Bucky heads toward the hotel, beginning to get worried about you. He gets into the elevator and presses the 5. Bucky doesn’t even notice the way he nervously taps his foot as the elevator climbs to your floor. He makes his way to your room and raises his hand, rapping his knuckles against the thick wood.

No answer.

He waits a few seconds before knocking again, harder.

Bucky feels his heart rate pick up ever so slightly when he calls your name and still doesn’t hear a response. He pulls his phone out of his pocket to call you and stops suddenly, cursing himself under his breath.

He’d never even gotten your phone number. 

Fuck.

He slips his phone back into his pocket and his fingers brush aroom key. Your room key.

You had given him your room key earlier. 

“Are you in there, doll? If you want me to go away then just say so. Promise I won’t be upset, sweetheart, just wanna make sure you’re okay.”

He knocks one last time and pulls the key card out to unlock the door. 

“I’m coming in, doll.”

He cautiously steps into your room, calling out your name again. He does a quick scan of the bedroom and the bathroom before concluding that you’re not there. 

As he heads back down to the lobby, he realizes he’s more frantic than he has any right to be. You’re not his to worry about. You’re not his to take care of. You’re not his. But he can figure that out later. Right now, he needs to make sure you’re okay. 

He walks through the lobby and the gift shop racking his brain for anything he could have done to upset you. You seemed understanding when he left you in your room. Maybe you felt rejected when he declined your offer to shower with you? If only you’d known how hard it was for him to say no to you, how his self-control almost hadn’t been strong enough. 

He rounds the corner to the hotel bar and instantly feels a weight lift off of his shoulders when he sees you sitting at the bar, wearing the Hawiian shirt that mirrors his own. Bucky makes his way across the room in quick strides.

“Hey, sweetheart. Are you okay?” He places his hand on your shoulder and you turn to look at him. 

Any relief Bucky had felt just moments ago is gone as soon as he notices your tear-streaked face and watery eyes. He instantly reaches a gentle hand out to cup your face, which you promptly smack away.

Bucky raises his hands in the air, wanting to show that he isn’t a threat. A distressed and confused expression makes its way across Bucky’s face as his mind begins to race. He immediatley searches his memory again for what he could have done to upset you.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, ready to come up with a solution; ready to console you; ready to do everything in his power to take your pain away. This is the first time Bucky’s seen you this upset, and in this moment he decides he’ll do his damndest to make sure he never sees you this upset again. 

“Fuck off, Barnes,” you scoff, turning back towards the bar and downing the last of your drink.

Bucky stands with a dumbfounded look on his face, hands frozen in the air. Determined to make sure you’re okay, Bucky takes a seat next to you while you order another drink. 

“Doll, what happened?” 

Bucky feels as if his heart is about to pound out of his chest. It’s physically hurting him to see you like this, and it hurts him even more knowing that, based off your hostility towards him, it might be his fault. 

“Did I do something, sweetheart?”

You turn to Bucky, eyes lit with what Bucky can only describe as rage. 

“I don’t know, maybe you should ask that girl you were buying a drink for at the bar,” you scoff, an incredulous smirk on your face as the bartender places a fresh drink in front of you.

Bucky feels his whole body go tense at your words. His eyes close as he sucks in a strained breath, realizing how it must have looked if you had seen the interaction from afar. 

“Please, let me explain. It wasn’t what it looked like, I promise.” 

“Yeah right, James. Was that not you buying a drink for a fucking supermodel out there? Maybe it was your doppelganger out there that was laughing with her? I’m sure you weren’t trying to get in her pants. I’m sure it couldn’t have been the fact that there’s a hundred better-looking, more interesting women at this resort right now. I’m sure it wasn’t that you got what you wanted from me an-”

“Enough,” Bucky’s stern tone cuts you off. 

He looks around and sees the attention your little spat has drawn. He softly says your name, ocean blue eyes boring into your own, pleading. 

“Please, doll, let’s talk. Can we get out of here?”

He watches you contemplate for a moment before responding. Bucky’s eyes may have softened your resolution because you give in.

“Fine. I’ll hear you out, but that’s all I’m promising.”

“Of course,” Bucky nods enthusiastically as he stands from his chair, “if you still want nothing to do with me after I explain myself then I won’t bother you anymore. Swear.”

Bucky watches as you attempt to hop down from your barstool in your drunken state. You barely land on your feet, stumbling forward. Bucky reaches out instinctively, wrapping his hands around your forearms before you land face first on the hard floor. 

“Careful, honey.”

You remove your arms from his grasp and head towards the lobby, Bucky following behind you. Bucky stops you with a light hand on your shoulder in front of the gift shop.

“Hey can you wait right here for a second?”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now, James?”

Bucky tries to ignore the twinge of pain he feels as you call him by his first name again. 

“Please, just trust me. I’ll be back in one minute, just sit right here.”

He directs you to a couch before going into the hotel’s little store. Bucky tries to calm himself down as he walkes toward the little fridge and grabs a bottle of water. He struggles to wrap his head around that fact that the two of you went from playing football and scuba diving earlier today to him having to beg to talk to you. 

He tries his best to be polite when the cashier asks him about his night, meanwhile he can’t shake the image of your devastated eyes at the bar. He couldn’t let you go on thinking he’d do that to you. Couldn’t let you go on thinking that he would use you and throw you aside like that. 

After he pays, he grabs the water bottle and thanks his lucky stars when you’re still sitting where he left you.

“Drink this please, doll.” He extends the water bottle.

He’s expecting you to put up a fight, but to his surprise, you snatch the bottle from him and down half of it in one go.

“Good girl.”

Bucky doesn’t notice the effect his words have on you, even in your outraged state. 

“Let’s go outside.”

Bucky’s hand hovers over your lower back as you walk, ready to reach out and steady you in case you stumble. Bucky guides you to the beach, almost empty at this hour. When you’re far enough away from the few people scattered around, Bucky plops down onto the sand and reaches a hand up to help you down next to him. 

After you sit, Bucky keeps a lose grip on your hand. When you don’t make any attempts to pull it away, he tightens his grip and pulls your joint hands to rest on his thigh.

Bucky takes a deep breath before beginning. 

“After I left you in your room, I went down to meet Sam and Steve at the bar. At one point, I got up to get everyone another round of drinks. That’s when that woman approached me. I was afraid she was going to hit on me at first, and if she had, believe me, I would have turned her down.”

“She wasn’t hitting on you?”

“No, sweetheart, she told me she thought Sam was cute. She wanted to buy him a drink and didn’t know what to get him, so I just gave her the beer I had bought for Sam and let her give it to him. She took the beer over and was sitting with Sam when I got back. For the most part, her and Sam were talking and kissing while me and Steve tried our best to ignore them. Eventually, Steve got up to go to the bathroom and I came to look for you because I had no desire to be around them any longer and I was worried about you.”

“Oh. So you and her weren’t flirting? You didn’t buy the drink for her?”

“‘course not doll.”

“Shit, I’m sorry, Buck.”

Bucky feels the tension seep out of his bones when you call him ‘Buck’ instead of ‘James’. 

“Don’t be, doll. I’m sorry for how that looked. And even more, I’m sorry that you thought I’d ever do that to you. I would never use you like that then just move on to another girl like it never happened. Besides, I haven’t even begun to get I want from you, honey.” 

“Huh?”

“Earlier you said I’d  just taken what I wanted from you. That’s not true.”

Bucky won’t have everything he wants from you until you know that being able to spend these last few days with you has made him feel like the luckiest man alive. Until he’s convinced you that you’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever met. Until he’s able to help you overcome all those unwarranted insecurities stupid fucking Brock put in your head. Until you’re his. 

Bucky’s afraid to say all of this out loud, both because he doesn’t want to scare you off and because he’s not ready to admit to himself how quickly and deeply he fell for you. So instead, he brings your hand up to his mouth and presses a kiss to it. 

Almost as if you understand, you don’t press the topic, just let out a little sigh at the feeling of Bucky’s soft lips on your skin. 

“I really am sorry though, Buck. I overreacted. I guess I just thought you got bored of me and decided to leave, like Brock. Besides, it’s not like we’re exclusive. I mean we hardly know each other, it’s not my place to tell you what you can or can’t do with other women.”

“Doll, I wouldn’t waste time with other women when we’ve only got a few more days here. I’d spend every second of my time left here with you if I could,” Bucky rubs his thumb along your hand, hoping that you believe him. “Listen closely. I understand why you got upset. It looked bad. Also, Brock is quite possibly the dumbest man on the planet for having someone as fucking perfect as you and ‘getting bored’. I don’t know how you put up with that undeserving piece of shit for so long. You deserve to be fucking worshipped, don’t ever settle for anything less.”

“Thank you, Bucky,” he doesn’t miss the way your eyes start to water again at his words.

“Promise me, doll.”

“Promise what?”

“Promise me that you’ll never settle for anything less.”

Though the thought of you being with anyone else at all pains Bucky - he knows it shouldn’t -, he needs to know that no matter who you end up with after you leave Hawaii, you’re being treated right. 

You hesitate for only a moment before responding.

“I promise, Buck.”

“So,” Bucky braces himself, “are we okay? If you want nothing to do with me, like I said before, I’ll leave you alone.”

“Yeah, Bucky” your lips curl into a gentle smile, “we’re okay.”

Bucky lets out a sigh of relief when you scoot yourself closer to him and lean against his shoulder. He wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you tight, pressing a kiss to your head. 

“Good. Now drink the rest of your water, sweetheart.”

Bucky uncaps the bottle and hands it to you. You sip on the water and Bucky feels at peace for the first time in hours, with you in his arms and the waves crashing onto the sand in front of him. He could stay here forever, he thinks. It’d give him plenty of time to ask you all those questions. Before he can get the chance, though, he feels you shiver. 

“Shit, honey, are you cold?”

Bucky had been too preoccupied thinking to notice the breeze blowing against the two of you. 

“Let’s go back,” he doesn’t wait for an answer from you before standing and helping you to your feet. 

As soon as you stand, you interlace Bucky’s fingers with your own and the two of you make your way back to the hotel. You seem to be walking a lot more steady now, the bottle of water and time spent on the beach having sobered you up.

Bucky fills the walk back with apologies for hurting you and you reply with your own apologies for jumping to conclusions. By the time the two of you reach your floor, you agree to leave the events of the night behind you and move on.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” Bucky questions, getting ready to say goodnight and turn toward his room.

Your response surprises Bucky.

“Do you want to come back to my room?” you smirk at Bucky and begin to run your hand up his forearm.

“Are you sure, doll? We don’t need to do anything.”

After everything that’s happened today, the last thing Bucky wants to do is make you feel like you’re being used. He needs you to know he’s spending time with you for the right reasons. 

“I want to if you do, Buck.”

“Okay, but only if you’re certain.”

Bucky wouldn’t even be considering it if he didn’t think all the alcohol had worn off, but he hasn’t seen any signs of intoxication since the walk to the beach.

“You made me a promise in the dressing room.”

Bucky’s eyes darken as he recalls you getting on your knees for him in the hotel gift shop earlier. 

“I did, didn’t I?” 

Bucky leads the two of you to your room and unlocks it with the key card he still has. 

“Can’t leave me hanging, Bucky.”

He’s sure you’re more than ready for some attention after he had edged you.

“You’re right about that baby.” he opens the door and walks in behind you.

Bucky can tell by the way you stand awkwardly in front of the bed, you’re waiting for him to give you an order. The realization makes his dick jump in his boxers. He typically prefered to be dominant in bed, and he’s grateful for the way you seem so eager to submit and let him take the reigns. 

“Listen, doll, tonight is all about you. You were so good for me today. You did perfect and you earned your reward.”

Even if he didn’t actually do anything wrong, Bucky can’t help but feel responsible for the tears you shed today. He wants to rid the image of your watery eyes staring at him with hate from his mind and replace it with one of your face scrunched up in pleasure as you scream him name. 

He needs to make it up to you. 

Bucky pulls his shirt over his head as he stalks toward you, throwing it on the floor. 

“Take your clothes off and get on the bed.”

Bucky does nothing to hide the ravenous look in his eyes as he watches you undress, he just palms his rapidly growing erection. He lets out a low curse when you expose your breasts to him. You remove your shorts, then look up to Bucky with a questioning look as you thumb the waistband of your panties.

“All of it, doll.”

You pull the fabric down your legs and lay back on the bed, waiting for Bucky’s next move. 

Bucky allows himself to revel in this moment only for a second - you spread naked on the bed, waiting for him with desperate,  pleading eyes - before he reminds himself that he’s supposed to be making it up to you right now.

Bucky stands by the edge of the bed and grabs your ankles. He drags your body down the bed with ease until your hips are on the end of the bed, legs hanging over the side. Bucky kneels down onto the floor, face level with your center.

Bucky is only slightly shocked at how wet your core is. He can’t help the groan that escapes him as he watches your slick pool out. 

“Fuck, doll. You’re killing me here.”

You buck your hips up into the air seeking any sort of relief and Bucky throws your legs around his shoulders. He doesn’t even give you a chance to beg, he dives right in. He laps up the wetness that has escaped from your pussy before suckling your clit into his mouth and tonguing it. 

You let out a shriek and it only spurs Bucky on. 

He alternates between fucking his tongue into you and suctioning your clit between his full, pink lips. 

“Fu- Bucky! I’m cl- oh god- I’m close!” Bucky thinks that he could spend the rest of his life down here, on his knees for you, if you continue making sounds like that. 

He grips your thighs around his head, fingers almost bruising. He rapidly flicks his tongue over your clit and you come with a moan that Bucky thinks may be the second-best thing he’s ever heard - number one being your laugh, of course. 

Bucky returns to your hole to drink up all of your release. He listens to your gasps as you ride out your high, hips bucking into his face. 

“Okay, Buck, it’s- fuck- it’s too much, baby,” you try to pry your legs open around his head but his grip is unrelenting.

Bucky lifts his mouth off of you just long enough to say, “Not yet, honey. I want one more,” before he reattatches his mouth to your sensitive bundle of nerves.

He meant it when he said he could stay down here forever. He pays no mind to his stiff knees - sore from the hard floor, or the wet spot formed on his boxers from his leaking dick. He wants you to forget about all the pain you felt today, wants to eat you out until all you know is pleasure, until the only word your mouth is able to form is his name. 

“Holy fu-ahh,” you grab the comforter beneath you for dear life.

“You can do it, doll. Don’t you wanna be a good girl for me?”

Bucky brings a hand up inbetween your legs and slips two fingers into your soaked pussy with no resistence. 

“So fucking soaked baby. This little pussy really was desperate for me, huh?”

He curls his fingers until he feels that spongy spot inside you and continues brushing up against it when he hears your moans. 

“Yes, Bucky! Right there, please!”

“No need, to beg tonight doll. I know exactly what you want and I’m gonna give it to you.”

Bucky sucks your mouth into his clit and ever so gently scrapes it with his teeth, eliciting a borderline pornographic moan of his name from you. He continues curling his fingers and focusing his mouth on your clit.

You don’t give him a verbal warning, but Bucky knows you’re about to come undone again by your breathing and the way you’re squeezing his fingers so tight he’s afraid you’ll push them out. He eats you through it, fucking you on his digits as you moan and gasp for breath. 

He pulls his hand from your core and fucks you with his tongue until you start to whine from overstimulation and only then does he pull away, rising to his feet. 

“Did so fucking perfect for me, baby,” he praises, “I’ll be right back, promise.”

He bends down and places a kiss on your damp forehead, and heads for the bathroom. Bucky is reminded of his hard-on when his zipper presses against it rather uncomfortably. He shucks off his pants and shoes on the way to the bathroom. 

He grabs a washcloth and dampens it in the sink with warm water, and returns to you in his boxers. He gets back down onto his knees and spreads your legs. He drags the warm cloth through your folds, cleaning up the mixture of his spit and your arousal. Once he’s done the best he can, careful to avoid your oversensitive clit, he presses a kiss to the top of your mound. 

He stands and throws the washcloth into the pile with the rest of the dirty clothes. 

“Tired, doll?” Bucky fights back a laugh at the way your eyelids droop, struggling to stay open. 

“No, Buck, lemme take care of you,” he sees your eyes drop to his boxers.

“Not a chance, honey. Told you tonight was all about you. Time for bed,” he smiles fondly at your attempt to take care of him.

You put up a brief fight, but Bucky manages to get you under the covers and climbs in next to you. You immediately curl into his chest when he’s beside you and Bucky’s thankful you can’t see the grin on his face. 

He brings a hand to your hair and smoothes it down. 

“Goodnight, angel.”

The only response Bucky gets from you is the light sound of your breaths, hot against his chest. 

Once he’s positive you’re asleep, he allows himself to admit out loud, “I think I’m falling for you, doll.”

To be continued...

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[nolongerapileofashprobably]

Should the dev team have committed to Zelda's draconification being permanent and have her stay a dragon at the end, and would that have made for a more honest and poignant ending than the one we got? Some fans think that the ending we got renders her sacrifice completely meaningless and devoid of impact.

The dev team absolutely should NOT have committed to Zelda’s draconification. It would have ruined the entire story and narrative for Zelda’s character and Hyrule itself.

Some people think it made the sacrifice meaningless and devoid of impact. . . But it didn’t. Her choice was her own and it was a statement of dedication to Link and Hyrule as a whole. It was also utterly tragic that she had to do this in order to heal the Master Sword. I am still in utter distress whenever I play the game and watch the memories, despite knowing the ending. Because it’s the tragedy she endured willingly that makes the sacrifice meaningful, not the permanence of it. The sacrifice would hold no value had it been a choice Zelda made knowing she would be reverted.

She didn’t. She thought it was permanent.

And I’m honestly tired of some of these fans just not wanting a happy ending for her character. She deserves peace and a happy life. That’s what she got, which is absolutely justified. And those who think of a story so plainly and only at the big picture miss the details and narratives that point directly towards the ending we actually got.

Let’s talk about if she didn’t turn back.

Firstly, we can start with simple things that personally can be reworked in the future but would create a hurdle for the devs in the future— Zelda would never die as a dragon, she is an immortal being. The Zelda series is quite literally founded upon a reincarnation cycle between Zelda, Link, and Ganon. And only one of them is linked through blood: Zelda. That would cause a bump in the whole reincarnation foundation.

Beyond that, Zelda’s character development would suffer with this choice becoming permanent.

Any fan upset by the ending doesn’t understand the implications of Zelda being granted a second chance. She dedicated her entire life before the calamity to training and praying, only to have her magic awaken AFTER the champions, her father, and nearly Link are killed. Her efforts for the next century keep her body suspended in time and keeps Ganon at bay through her light power. When she wakes up, she is granted a ‘second chance’. In reality, it is simply the life she fought for and rightfully deserved.

So after she made Hyrule her home again, unifying the scarcely populated land and invigorating its culture, she is once again forced to sacrifice everything. This time, she does so as a leader and as one who holds such strong power. Her journey as a Queen leads her to become the very leader she WANTS to be, not the one she was constantly reprimanded to be by her father and the old kingdom. And she learns this throughout her time in the past, with Rauru as her guide.

And that leads us to this point: the belief that to rule is to give up everything.

But where others are punished for this choice (despite Zelda’s warnings, Rauru’s ignorance of Ganondorf’s power leads to Sonia and his own death), Zelda is REWARDED for her choices.

Because she did not just claim that another will defeat Ganondorf and seal him away until present day like Rauru.

Zelda did much more. She raised the sky islands, made a promise with Mineru, solidified the aid of the sages, collected the Master Sword and chose to give LINK the best chance he could have against Ganondorf. Zelda did every single thing she could to ensure Ganondorf would be defeated. She even aids in the final battle, as her will is to end that evil and grant Hyrule the peace she herself will (presumably, to her own knowledge) never experience.

So when she is rewarded for her efforts, by being bathed in sacred light and her body reversed to its previous state. . . It is entirely in line with the narrative thus far. Additionally, Rauru and Sonia present themselves as a ‘second chance parents’ for Zelda. A supportive, patient father in Rauru. A guiding teacher and mother in Sonia.

Tears of the Kingdom mirrors Breath of the Wild in terms of Zelda’s development and story. To give an ending where Zelda remains a dragon. . . It would have been tragic and dishonest to the story that we got.

If you want to read something more in depth and not written by someone with one eye open, this post grants a well rounded answer to this question.

[chuckeroo777]

Laios got Eaten AU Chapter 86-Finale

Chapters 1-52, Chapters 53-85

Welcome back! It's time to bring this to a close! Expect the chapter format to break down once we get into it!

As always, a spoiler warning for pretty much all of Dungeon Meshi. Let's go!

Chapter 86:

The first bit is mostly the same, except since the pearlipede isn't a weapon, there is no seppuku scare.

Flamela, as usual, has no chill. While she knows Falin isn't to blame, everything is still majorly f***ed. She starts blabbing about what needs to be done now, filling in the hole, evacuating everyone, preparing a substitute lord...

A substitute lord. Falin grows very quiet, a vacant look in her eyes. Marcille knows it all too well. Falin is thinking hard about something.

After a long pause, Falin looks to Marcille. There is an almost frightening intensity in her gaze. An intensity Marcille has only seen once before.

Falin declares that she knows how to stop the Demon for good. She must become lord of the dungeon.

Everyone immediately freaks out. This is clearly an awful idea, and Falin is failing to elaborate.

Before they can get Falin to explain herself, the Demon makes itself known in it's giant form. The raw intensity of Falin's desire has it intrigued.

Falin doesn't say another word as the lion grabs the tower and swallows it whole, the rest of the party completely freaking out.

Chapter 87:

Identical

Chapter 88:

Once they arrive in the bone zone, Falin goes to approach the lion, but Marcille stops her. What exactly is she planning?

Falin takes a deep breath, before wavering, and then grabs Marcille in a tight embrace. Falin begs Marcille and the other's forgiveness for what she is about to do.

Falin kisses Marcille on the lips. Marcille is left stunned for a few seconds too long, and Falin runs off before she can stop her.

Realizing that Falin is about to sacrifice herself, everyone runs after her, but it is too late. Falin stands before the Demon, and states her desire.

"Make me the Lord of the Dungeon. However it has to happen, I desire the power to keep everyone safe from you. Forever."

They watch in horror as the Demon wraps its wings around her, and they both vanish from sight.

Chapter 89:

The demon's pocket dimension starts to shake. The bones begin to swirl and collapse. As the party is dragged under, they catch a brief glimpse of a massive figure rising from the bones. A familiar face, now sporting five hourglass eyes.

Marcille and the others fall into the water. They panic as they are helped up by Namari and the others. Falin did... something. And isn't coming back.

The original chapter structure breaks down completely here.

Nobody is given a chance to process this news, as the dungeon suddenly starts shifting again. Whole swaths are pulled back underground, and the hole in the ceiling begins to seal back up. The dungeon is reverting into it's previous form.

Many of the groups get separated in the panic, and people are dispersed across the dungeon.

Once things settle down a little, Marcille, Senshi, Chilchuck, and Izutsumi find themselves in the fifth level, back in the castle town, on the street were the red dragon fell.

Marcille breaks down into tears, the totality of what has happened finally sinking in. Senshi and Chilchuck have no idea what to say, but do their best to comfort her. Even Izutsumi reluctantly offers a hug.

After a little while, Chilchuck suggests that they should probably start heading for the surface. It shouldn't be too hard, since by sheer luck (or perhaps the dungeon's will), their bags and equipment ended up with them here.

As they awkwardly prepare to leave, they are interrupted by the sound of wings. The Laigon swoops down, and lands in front of them.

There is a moment of panic, but then they realize that the chimera isn't attacking. Laios is so happy to see his friends again, though, he is a little confused. His memories under Thistle's control are hazy, and his vocal cords are malformed, making it tricky for him to talk much.

Marcille and the others are overjoyed that Laios is alright, though the reunion is definitely bittersweet. Laios is devastated to learn that Falin sacrificed herself. But ultimately, they all need to keep going, to honor her memory.

They begin to make their way up the dungeon. Laios is excited to finally be able to assess his new body in his right mind. The dragon's soul is still there in full force, but it's controllable, just like when Laios was first revived. He only wishes his sister was here to see him finally fulfill his dream.

The dungeon is oddly calm, with the monsters keeping to themselves, and there being more fountains and food (Such as patches of Barometz and mandrakes) to be found.

As they progress, they run across more people. They meet up with Toshiro, Namari, Kabru, and Thistle on the third floor, and Laios is quick to apologize for his actions. Kabru immediately throws Thistle under the bus, pointing out that it's him who should be apologizing.

Thistle does not apologize.

After a few days travel, they make their way to the first floor. It is much bigger and more spacious than before. Everyone has met up here to discuss what happens next. Laios sits by the well to conserve his strength. He probably won't be able to leave the dungeon in his current form.

They meet up with Pattadol and get the scoop. It seems that not only has this dungeon calmed down, but dungeons across the world are calming down too. Where normally dungeons try to fan the desires of their inhabitants, the dungeons have all become oddly passive.

Marcille is about to willingly let herself be arrested by the canaries, when there is sudden another rumble. The big well at the center of the plaza begins to bubble, and a shocking figure emerges from the water.

It is Falin, in her full blown demon form.

She has eschewed the lion imagery, instead taking on the form of a terrifying yet elegant centipede woman. Her face is mostly the same, but with three additional eyes peeking out from her messy bangs, all five wide with infinity pupils. Her body is long and serpentine, with dozens of arms lining the sides. Layered golden robes complete the look. She is nearly 20 feet long, and that's only the portion sticking out of the fountain.

Before even figuring out what the hell is going on, Marcille and Laios rush forward and tearfully embrace Falin. Everyone else is understandably shocked and confused, but Falin begins to explain what happened.

When she became lord, she fused with the demon. As an nonliving creature, its will became subsumed by hers. She feared that its one true instinct, the desire to feed on desires, would overwhelm her, and she initially planned to sequester herself away from the world. However, she soon discovered a solution.

Auto-cannibalism.

Yeah, turns out she could just consume her own desire to eat desires, allowing her to assume full control of her new infinite form without the demon's corrupting influence.

(Author's note: Initially, I was struggling to figure out the ending, since a Golbetty solution was the only one I could think of. But then I realized, why does that have to be a downer ending. If I want a happy ending, I can just... do it. Plus, if auto-cannibalism isn't a peak Dungeon Meshi solution, I don't know what is.)

Falin wants to keep her use of her infinite power at a minimum, but there are a few things she definitely wants to do. First, she makes sure everyone who was affected by Marcille's reign is healed up.

Next, with Laios' help to guide her hand, she modifies his chimera form so he can live comfortably on the surface. The wings have to go, and he is made considerably smaller, more resembling a draconic centaur.

She then begins the process of ejecting the golden country from the dungeon. Once Yaad is returned to his body, he ends up being made the leader of the restored nation. The orcs are of course allowed in, and it eventually becomes a prosperous nation.

After determining that he is only capable of very rudimentary magic without his book, The elves release Thistle into the kingdom's custody a few years later. Thistle never reunites with Delgal, but at least his people are happy. He proceeds to be the grumpy court mage.

Chilchuck moves to Kahka Brud and opens a shop. He eventually reunites with his wife with Marcille's help, and the two reconcile.

Senshi returns to living in the dungeon. It is now mostly just level 6 and 7, though Falin creates plenty of caves and spaces for biodiversity to proliferate. Senshi primarily lives in the new first floor, tending the golems. He is able to massively expand his operation, becoming Melini and Kahka Brud's primary provider of cabbage and root vegetables.

Falin proposes that with her new powers, she could seperate Izutsumi's components safely. But after giving it a good hard think over a few weeks, Izutsumi realizes... she doesn't actually want that. The only reason she ever wanted that was because people treated her as an unnatural freak. And after hanging out with people who respect her for what she is, she no longer wants to give up what makes her 'her'. She ends up living around Melini, mostly squatting with her friends and hunting monsters with Laios. She does end up finding the dark mage who created her, and gets him put away for life.

While Demon Falin is a kindhearted soul, there is one instance the canaries noticed where she was extremely uncooperative. When attempting to arrest Marcille for her dungeon lord shenanigans, Falin kept changing the subject, and getting progressively more annoyed. They ultimately decide to let her have Marcille, not wanting to piss off the young goddess.

Kabru ends up becoming the governor of the dungeon, keeping track of coming and goings, making sure everyone explores safely, and generally making sure things run smoothly. Mithrun ends up retiring from the canaries and decides to work with Kabru.

Toshiro returns to the east, but he periodically still comes back to visit Falin and his friends. After a few more years of dungeoneering, Namari ends up opening an armor and weapons store.

While his home is in the dungeon, Laios ends up working for Yaad and the kingdom, using his knowledge and chimera strength to hunt down dangerous monsters spotted around the kingdom.

Falin is restricted to the dungeon, but she doesn't mind as long as all her friends are able to visit. She ends up being revered as the new deity of Melini. While she mostly doesn't want to use her powers willy nilly, she is always happy to heal those who ask. Plus, she is present in all the remaining ancient dungeons, ensuring they all remain stable and safe for those wishing to explore them.

Marcille of course lives in the dungeon with Falin, and continues to study magic, particularly of the ancient variety. She makes all sorts of useful discoveries over the years, and comes to be rather famous, despite her criminal past. Eventually, Falin ends up making Marcille a chimera so that Falin, Marcille, and Laios can be together for a very long time. Plus, Marcille and Falin have all sorts of real freaky sex.

And they all lived happily ever after. The end.

Thanks to everyone who has enjoyed my silly little AU. I hope you enjoyed this crazy finale, even if it's 90% wish fulfillment on my part.

Till next time!

[freesia-writes]

Ch 36: Clarification

Master List ~~ Previous Chapter ~~ WC: 2k

Hunter watched as the ship disappeared into the clouds, feeling its jump to hyperspace as he stared after it in utter disbelief. He couldn’t get to Tech’s fast enough, mind racing the entire way. 

“That is a most fascinating series of events,” Tech observed after Hunter had filled him in on the tumult of the last few days. 

“That’s one way to put it,” Hunter grumbled, taking a long drink from his cup of caf. “So, she wasn’t lying?”

“I did not detect a single trace of deception. Considering your apparent affinity for attracting supernatural activity on this island, it will likely be a fruitless search for concrete scientific answers.”

“I’m not looking for this supernatural stuff.”

“I know.” Tech skimmed through the data the scanner had recorded, reviewing and confirming what he’d surmised. “Her mind seems entirely convinced of the story she told. There are some odd physiological markers in the parts of her brain responsible for memory. It would appear that she has somehow been reverted to a past state, with absolutely no recollection of any of the events you shared together. It is a neurobiological phenomenon called autobiographical amnesia.”

“You’re sure?”

“There is no other possibility. If there were, I would likely have some inkling and would be able to follow the trail to a solid conclusion. But, as it stands, the semi-sentient island seems to have freed you entirely from any potential repercussions or further concerns.”

“I don’t believe it…”

“Hunter,” Tech said, slightly exasperated now. “It is not the first time we have seen inexplicably mystical occurrences, both here and in the galaxy at large. I would advise that you consider it a wonderfully fortuitous part of your narrative and proceed as usual.” 

“Better than any of the alternatives,” he said darkly, having considered every possible way to neutralize the threat that she represented, some of which were decidedly more gruesome than he felt comfortable with.

“Indeed. It is wildly convenient. This island seems to be quite useful in your story.”

“Guess so.”

“The only additional matter at hand is any remaining interaction between you and Lyra.”

Hunter took a deep breath, his rich brown eyes fixed in a distant gaze out the window.

* * * 

The door swung open shortly after the gentle knock, and Lyra beamed when she saw Hunter, then quickly adjusted it into a smaller, more acceptable smile. She ushered him in, having dressed in her usual attire – a loose, beige dress made of linen and a knitted cardigan over it, although this time the sweater was a blush pink color that gave her a more feminine look. A litany of drool-worthy smells filled his nose as they arrived in the kitchen, the counters strewn with nearly every cooking tool she owned, and she rested her backside against the counter, regarding him meekly. 

“Apparently I like to cook when I’m stressed,” she confessed with a self-effacing chuckle. “You hungry?”

“I wasn’t before I walked in,” he rumbled, gaze moving from the baked goods cooling on a rack near the window to the large pan on the stove with a savory scramble steaming in it. She smiled, moving at once to put a kettle on and fetch some plates. 

“So uh… What the heck happened?” She couldn’t wait a moment longer to hear the rest of the story. 

“Tech is absolutely positive that she somehow reverted to her life a few years ago. She’s completely convinced that she was here on vacation, never met us before, has no idea who we are, and was content to go back to her freelance journalist job based out of Coruscant. Apparently she still has an apartment there, and GNN allows her to come and go instead of requiring a steady presence, so it will be unbelievably effortless for her to just slip back into life there.”

“I don’t believe it,” she said softly, stirring a splash of cream into his caf the way she remembered he liked it. 

“Me neither, to be honest. But Tech was sure.”

“How would it–” She was interrupted by the chime of Hunter’s commlink, and he pulled it from a pocket and clicked a button. 

“Yeah?”

“I have some additional information for you and Lyra,” Tech’s distorted voice reported. 

“Great,” Hunter said, not sure how many more complications he could take. 

“I was further piecing together all of the events that have transpired from the very start and corroborating them with any and all evidence I could locate. A recent news development may prove to be reassuring to both of you.”

“Alright, let’s hear it,” he said. Lyra stepped closer to listen, brushing her arm against his before pulling away self-consciously. 

“Am I correct in assuming that Vuxpasian Trawley is Lyra’s former boss, the one that has been seeking to have her either incarcerated or disposed of?”

“Yes,” she answered, and Hunter felt the tension grip her entire body. 

“Excellent. He is dead.”

“Very straightforward, Tech. Thank you,” Hunter said, voice laced with affection for his brother’s unique style of communicating as Lyra gasped softly beside him, both hands racing to her mouth.

“I also have some additional information,” Crosshair drawled. Apparently everyone was on the same comm frequency today.

“I am not finished–” Tech protested.

“Too bad. This is important,” Crosshair insisted, not waiting for a reply. “Hunter… A Bantha sent a message. He wants to know why you stole his hairstyle.”

The guffaw that burst out of Lyra’s mouth made her immediately clap a hand over it, her cheeks flushed with immediate embarrassment as she looked apologetically at Hunter, whose lips were pressed together.

“Sorry,” she mouthed.

Tech continued, sparing not a single moment for Crosshair’s ridiculousness. “Anyway, while not directly stated in the official documents, it is more than obvious that it was none other than Emperor Palpatine who saw him dead. Trawley was reported to have been conducting his own research in the field of cloning, which as we know, is of utmost importance to Palpatine. By reading between the lines, I was able to deduce that he tried to blackmail the Empire by threatening to sabotage their own work in the field if they did not give him a position of esteem. Needless to say, it did not end well for him. So he, and anyone else who would have cared about the evidence possessed by Lyra and her daughter, have been… neutralized, to put it more gently for the apparently sensitive ears.”

Lyra stared at the comm, a myriad of expressions dancing across her face as she shook her head slowly, reeling from just how much had changed in a single twenty-four hour period. A deep, shaky breath was her best attempt at calm, and she pulled out a wooden chair to settle herself at the table. 

“The two of you may benefit from some time to process all of this. It is downright astonishing how every single factor that would stand in the way of a peaceful, happy future without fear of outside threats seems to have been taken care of. If I believed in fate, I would posit that it is in your favor. Anyway, see you at family dinner on Benduday.”

“And maybe try to put that mess into a ponytail,” Crosshair added, followed by Wrecker’s laugh and a deep inhale. Hunter clicked the comm off before he could finish whatever he was about to say.

He sank into the seat beside Lyra, rubbing his forehead with one hand before resting them both on the table. They both faced the wall, staring at the endless array of knick knacks and nature collections that summed up her delight with the simple things in life, and lost themselves in thought. 

“So… We’re just free to live happily ever after?” she finally asked, her skepticism laced with a depth of yearning that she didn’t want to admit. 

His distant stare dropped to the table, following the gnarled pattern of the wood grain that flowed and spiraled beneath his hands. The self-imposed yoke of doubt that rested heavily across his shoulders reminded him of the improbability, and yet that cynical voice of disbelief now had a competitor: a tiny, wistful flicker of hope.

“Want to eat?” Lyra broke the silence with her timid question. The delicious scents of her kitchen frolicked back into his consciousness, and he nodded, bringing himself back to the present. She fetched a couple of mismatched plates, one dark blue and handmade, the other more elaborate with a delicately woven vine along the edges, and piled each one high with a scramble, croissant, chopped potatoes, and fruit. Hunter couldn’t help but chuckle as she set the single-plate feast in front of him, and he quickly clarified as her face revealed insecurity.

“No, this is great,” he said quickly. “It’s just enough to make Wrecker feel full… for at least an hour.” 

She laughed self-consciously, fingers toying with the messy braid resting over her shoulder, and shrugged. “I’ll tell you what I told Breslin as a child – eat what you want and leave the rest.” Her expression deepened as the memories surfaced, and Hunter found himself with a strong desire to be privy to her internal thoughts. 

“You were pretty young yourself, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she sighed, stabbing a potato with her fork. “Young and dumb,” she smiled. “But I’ve always been an old lady at heart, no matter my actual age.” Her little snicker warmed his heart, and then she became suddenly serious, eyes distant and full of thought. 

Hunter waited.

“If we really are safe… I wonder if Breslin could come live here… Although she had a pretty good setup on Keytoll, so I don’t know if she’d even want to. But gods, I’ve missed her.”

“How old is she?” 

“Twenty-four.”

“So you had her when you were–”

“Eighteen. It wasn’t ideal by any means, and there’s never been a father in the picture. She was the consequence… turned into a gift… of some foolish choices.” She reflected for a moment, slowly swallowing another bite of potato, then studied him intently, a question on her lips that she seemed to be holding back. 

“What?” he prompted, catching her gaze. 

“You’re… twenty-eight?” The barely-restrained cringe on her face spoke volumes, and he felt his heart sink a little. 

“Yeah… But…” The truth of his engineering hung over him like a shameful dark cloud. “We were created with an accelerated aging process. So we age at twice the rate of… real people.” The pain in his voice at the last two words was unmistakable, and Lyra’s face deepened with compassion. 

“You are a real person,” she whispered, eyes glistening with emotion. 

“I guess so.”

“So…” she mulled it over. “In ten years, I’ll be fifty-two, and you’ll be…”

“Forty-eight,” he muttered. 

“And in fifteen years, you’ll be beating me by a year… fifty-eight when I’m fifty-seven…And so on and so forth,” she continued, doing the math in her head. 

“Yup.”

Silence rested between them for a moment.

“What’s it like?” Her question surprised him, and he tilted his head, resting his fork and knife on the edges of his plate as his hands loosely clasped them. 

“What?”

“Growing so quickly?” 

“I don’t know… Never known anything else. Honestly, I don’t think any of us really thought we would make it past the war. It was pointless to think that way. We’re… disposable.”

“Hunter,” she said softly, hand twitching toward his before pulling back. 

“No,” he said suddenly, setting down his eating utensils and slowly rising to his feet. A tornado of thoughts was tearing through his mind, and he was beginning to spiral along with it, utterly exhausted from the last twenty-four hours. “I can’t… I can’t do this right now.”

“This?” Her voice quavered. 

He looked at her, wrought with conflict, insecurity, regret, frustration, then with a small shake of his head, turned for the front door, pausing as he twisted the handle, then continued out with slumped shoulders.

.

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[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: SAUSAGE

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, Daddy kink, cannibalism mentions, force feeding, nausea

Read after the cut

---

Will and Hannibal stay up late into the wind brushed night, communing on the merits of art, of cities far they yearn to see and to absorb into themselves like scent into a rag.

“And her?” asks Hannibal; this, kneeling behind a door, you hear, a question as to the enigma of fate.

“She’d come with us,” Will answers. “Wouldn’t she?”

For a beat Hannibal entertains a silence sopped with threat. In spite of his forgiveness you have, through strident disruption of his party, trespassed upon good taste; he has no reason to think you would not humiliate him in less private spaces, may even consider a further blunder cause to discommunicate you from the family.

“If she is well enough, she’ll accompany us on all our ventures,” he says, at last. “It would be a pity if she couldn’t enjoy the food and with it boundless new experiences.”

You wilt against the doorframe in relief. No matter how many countless promises as to your permanence in their company are made you’ll never trust their word.

“Will she always be like she is now?” asks Will.

“A little girl? Not always. In phases, and behind closed doors, she'll revert to that state, however. Does fatherhood weary you already, Will?”

Again you stiffen.

Will says, “The taste hasn’t soured just yet.”

“You find that the flavour doesn’t quite compliment the other features of the menu, then," Hannibal suggests.

“I’m developing my palate. She’s still bitter.”

“But not without occasional sweetness.”

“Could do with a little more.”

Hannibal produces a quiet laugh.

“You surprise me, Will. In spite of her stubbornness to admit it, I find that it’s clear she cares for you. Considering the circumstances and your previous hostility I’m satisfied with her progress in that regard. In others less so.”

“She asked you to stop sleeping with Alana,” Will says, flippantly. “That’s progress. And the other day she asked me if you love her.”

Your mouth wraps around a knuckle to restrain a cry of angered embarrassment.

“She craves desire even from those she loathes,” says Hannibal, with a dismissive air. “I must renew my attempts to woo her. Only then will she begin to love.”

As quietly as you’re able you rise from the floor and take the stairs on slippered feet, fleeing the horror that is to be romanced by a murderer, sex surely the alembic with which he’ll distil your loyalty to his reign.

*

The next day begins with another breakfast, carried out with the performatory illusion that nothing whatever has happened at all between you three, or beyond.

You scrutinise your egg and sausage, chewing at your inner lip until your fore teeth unbutton blood from within.

What is this Hannibal’s served to you? A morsel from a previous kill, minced and made into three cylinders for your morning plate— this you believe, suddenly and entirely.

What would it mean to bury the flesh of those other girls in the earth of you, to grow fat off their death, to thrive like a maggot in this warm house as they degrade? Their breasts, their flanks served up in spiced pieces like any dish— you’d come to crave them, you fear, think deliciously of their flavour even as your soul writhed within the filth and heathen animal you'd be.

For if Lecter is the Copycat he’s surely served human meat to you before. The Chesapeake Ripper had once murdered a man named Mortem Briggs, had hung him from a fir tree, his limbs spread through the pines; Briggs’ left breast had been taken, may well have been frozen and unthawed later to convert into any feast you've partaken of in captivity.

To have eaten it unknowingly— by the skin of your teeth you can cling to the fact that it was forced on you. But to gnaw on human flesh aware like a witch of Homeric origin would stir your brains insensible until you'd be as your keepers would have you: a cannibal's love, and a cannibal yourself, complicit in their malign.

Ridiculously you think of the calories, how rich in fat such meat would be. Like pork, you’d heard, somewhere, although Hannibal has the skill to disguise it as other animals.

Why does he kill? For the pleasure alone, or some other purpose? To test Will Graham, perhaps, or merely to discard the unworthy from his world; he is cruel and aesthetically driven enough.

If you—gauche, unpleasant, ignorant to the names of painters and intellects, verging on uninterested in such facts—cannot learn to accept the beast he is will he reverse his word and put you to his table?

A flare of dread dispatches your hunger, and you sway in your chair, groaning under your breath.

The men talk, oblivious to your battle.

“The cooling periods between the Lover’s kills are getting shorter,” says Will, wiping butter from his lip. “On average they last around three months, maybe one month minimum. They're starting to fall. There’s a direct correlation between those figures and our investigation. The Lover's following us as closely as we’re watching him.”

“Yes,” says Hannibal. “He’s frustrated by the notion that you and Jack may thwart his grand romance before it’s truly begun.”

“There’s certainly an anger in his recent activity. Sloppiness. He sees us as an obstacle, but he still doesn’t think we’ll close in before he achieves his life’s work.”

You notice a humour in Hannibal’s otherwise neutral expression, a creasing about the eye only one as close as a lover would see.

“You disagree with the killer's belief,” he comments.

Will shrugs.

“If he made a mistake this time then he’ll do it again. He left a partial boot print in Amy’s hallway. He was wearing Timberland boots that night; forensics picked that up right away. He wears a size 10: the typical American male. That fits the profile we have of him— average height and weight, maybe a little muscle from handiwork.

“He’s in his mid to late fifties, estimated from the age of his victims, which have risen every year since he started killing so that his targets continue to resemble his doll. He could be any working class guy in America."

“His mediocrity is as much a mask as the most elaborate disguise," says Hannibal. "His aberrant heart will reveal him."

You feel that both men are holding back from one another, a shift from the previous night.

“He’s somebody who isn’t as smart as he thinks he is,” says Will. “There was grass and dirt in the tread of his sole. We analysed it. The soil came from three separate locations. While that could have been picked up from general wear, the remote nature of those places suggests he’s been keeping his victims in different hiding spots each cycle to avoid detection.

“We’ve got officers looking into small buildings in those areas. There could be evidence that would close the case.”

“And other unknown victims,” says Hannibal.

Will nods.

“The Lover chooses troubled women. High school dropouts, runways, previous mental health patients. He might have abducted any number of Jane Does that just haven’t been reported missing.”

That they hold this conversation without a glance in your direction makes you feel less than invisible, a non-entity only summoned when the need for your existence arises. The space for a third party to cohabit with Will and Hannibal is slender, and you cannot fathom that you are so wanted, and yet as seemingly incorporeal as the air.

“Amy was a bad choice for the Lover,” says Will. “She was on her guard when she opened the door to him that night, almost as if she was anticipating some sort of negative attention. If Freddie Lounds is telling the truth and Amy did reach out over an article then she may have expected a visit. She just couldn’t have known who exactly it would come from.

“Amy’s tall, stronger than she looks. When the Lover struck she pulled him down with her into the house, bumping into a table in the hallway and smashing a lamp. From the damage it’s obvious that she nearly overpowered him before he knocked her unconscious.

“From there the Lover got her out of the house and into the back of a truck. The neighbours report having seen one in the area, though we don’t have a model, and nobody saw the driver’s face.

“The Lover was injured, under stress. Turned off. He dumped Amy in the shack where he planned to carry out her rape and murder sometime later that week, only that didn’t go to plan, either. He was interrupted.”

“The Person from Porlock,” says Hannibal, enigmatically. “An innocent wanderer, or an accomplice?”

“The Lover works alone,” says Will, bluntly. “He doesn’t want romantic competition. If he did accept any kind of help it would be like members of some fringe group tipping each other off out of goodwill.”

You watch, grimly fascinated as Hannibal collects dirtied cutlery and plates without the merest suggestion of alarm.

“You suspect the Copycat,” he says.

Rather than answer directly Will looks in your direction.

“Your patient needs your assistance, Dr Lecter,” he says, gesturing to the sausage you’re attempting to sneak under a napkin.

Hannibal turns, his face brightening with open interest.

“Breakfast is always a hurdle for you,” he says. “What is it this time, Little One?”

“I don’t want to eat meat anymore,” you say, at a frayed, childish pitch. “It’s cruel. I... care about animals.”

Will’s eyes—tools of blue mercury—analyse the climate of your answer.

Hannibal says, “While I admire your interest in vegetarianism, I can’t allow you to restrict your eating any longer. We must return to the old rules, I’m afraid. Will and I agree that's best.”

“I can’t eat this,” you insist. “I’ll throw up. I swear I will. I’ll make a mess.”

At this Hannibal appears to lose something of his sympathy, his stare gaining an iron edge.

Will says, “Couldn’t she have double helpings of everything else to make up for it?”

“It was you that suggested I should tighten her reigns, Will,” says Hannibal, coolly. “Why the sudden change of heart?”

With a taut patience he leans across the table to cut your sausages into fractions. You haven’t even touched them with your cutlery, not wanting the juice of fattening mortality to taint the remainder of your meal.

“She’s been through a lot lately,” says Will. “Is this really the hill you want to die on?”

“It’s a sensible hill. The food she will eat lessens by the day. If we remove such a significant category from her diet she’ll merely find excuses to deplete it further. She’ll suffer from a lack of nutrients that supplements will not fully replace.”

It is not an argument, exactly, but you sense a challenge between them, nevertheless, the testing of loyalties.

“A lot of people are vegan and vegetarian and they’re just fine,” you pipe up, nervously. “Tell him, Will.”

“I’m not clued-in on the statistics,” he says, holding up his hands. “But if this is what you really want, maybe we can figure something out further down the line.”

“Of course,” says Hannibal, with a near imperceptible relief. “I’m not unwilling to compromise. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve served a vegetarian at my table. But at the present you’ll eat what I deign acceptable for you. I hope that you can understand, my darling.”

You stare at him, astonished that he can be so cruel and still, with cloying sympathy, claim to care and to adore you. In a book long ago you’d read of diseases passed from human flesh to its eaters that drove them mad; you’d think him such a sufferer were he not so controlled, nor so sane.

“You know why I can’t eat it,” you whisper. “You know. Dad, please.”

“Know what, Little One?” asks Hannibal, casually.

He's quite aware that you don’t dare speak before his friend of such secrets as even he has not admitted aloud. 

Trapped by your fear of Hannibal’s wrath should you do so, you only mutter, “You hunt your own meat. I don’t want something you killed.”

Will says your name sharply, and you realise you’ve made a mistake in directing anything even remotely resembling an insult in Hannibal’s direction. Yet in the younger man’s tone there is also an interest in the undercurrent of secrecy at this table of whose scent he’s caught.

“What would it matter who slaughtered the meat?” Will asks. “You’ve never taken an interest before. Why now?”

You glance down at the tablecloth in helpless silence

“It’s as I feared,” says Hannibal; so much for wooing, you think. “She’s set against me.”

“I’m not!” you snap. “If he was the butcher I’d feel just the same way.”

This said with a glance at Will, who folds his arms, disapproving.

“This is starting to feel a little personal. I can’t let you act out like this. You know that, right?”

“I’m not acting out!"

“You’re being argumentative,” says Hannibal. “If you cannot eat then you must be assisted to do so. Will, if you’d be so kind...”

You watch a look of incredulous realisation pass across Will’s face.

“You want me to feed her?”

“Yes. I’ve done it myself many times. Your turn to carry out the role, I think.”

Will turns you a sidelong glance.

“You don’t need me to do that, do you?”

There’s no declining the meal; Hannibal will force the point till you are full, no matter the method. Yet if Will holds the fork then it is at least his choice for you to gain weight from the unknown dead, another imposition of many.

So you nod, an infant not yet canny enough to brook the use of any adult tongue.

Will laughs, a guise for his discomfort.

“That isn’t the answer I expected from you.”

“It’s a good thing that she’s asked for help,” says Hannibal, kissing the top of your head as he walks by to take the empty plates to be washed. “We mustn’t discourage her growth.”

Picking up your fork, Will holds it awkwardly aloft. In his grey suit and checkered shirt he appears very much a young father with the care of a pouting stepchild foisted upon him. The bustling inconvenience of the early hour, the brimming stormcloud of the Lover's case: Will has neither the time nor interest in the role to truly engage.

Still, you are wounded by the sense of casual rejection: he wouldn't pause his world for the worship of you as he would for Hannibal.

“Fine,” Will says. “Open up.”

As he tips the fork you imagine a gobbet of minced labia rolling upon your tongue, a strip of shoulder meat, a plush cut of cheek.

Your hand goes up to your greasy lips at once.

“No spitting,” says Will, and the firmness of his voice grounds you in your nausea. “I’m supposed to be meeting Jack in half an hour. Can’t exactly do that with your breakfast all over me.”

If Will is offering up a person to you then surely he does not know it, or he would not seat himself so readily to his own meal. Yet by now he is wilfully ignorant of the reality before him, a little boy covering his eyes against the atrocities he finds a friend capable of.

Suddenly you feel imperious, advanced, cleverer than Will in that you’re unclouded by the love of Dr Lecter.

You eat almost to spite him, then, so that when he learns what he has done he might grovel for your forgiveness. That he will think of this morning, of the Chesapeake Ripper’s trail of death, and shudder that he had gorged so hungrily on those for whom he sought justice.

“You know I can’t do this every time, right?” asks Will, misinterpreting your obedience. “This might be more fun for you, but you’ve got to learn to do this on your own.”

“Yeah,” you say, sweetly, having done away with the last lump of ambiguous sausage. “I know, Daddy.”

You kneel up on your seat and lean in to kiss him, but Will turns his head away, likely thinking of the pleasure you’d had him taste in your last caress.

“Mean,” you say, but he only scoffs before he, too, leaves the table.

*

In the afternoon Will returns to the house from his work unexpectedly, white as a cave etching, his balance precarious.

“Go to bed,” says Hannibal firmly as he puts a hand to Will’s brow to take his temperature. “You’re pushing yourself too hard with this case. You need rest.”

Thinking of the night of Will’s seizure— the night Hannibal suggested that food may well be its trigger—you gain a new suspicion. You wait an hour before slipping into Will’s room, taking advantage of your older captor writing a new piece of music in absorbed concentration to do so.

You look at the sleeping young man, so pampered and petted by the doctor as to have been tucked in under luxurious sheets, and feel a white wing of jealousy beat across your vision.

Yanking back the coverlet you climb into bed and crawl atop Will to shake him rudely awake, too intent on the confrontation to look to the dangers of it.

His eyes start open, and one of his large hands wraps around your mouth to stop you screaming out at the look in them, a blue-bladed killing rage.

“Again?” he says, lowering his arm. “What did I tell you? You shouldn’t wake me up like that. The dreams I’ve been having, the blackouts, the seizures— it’s not safe. You could get hurt.”

You feel the thud of Will’s crazed heart beneath you, like the pendulum of the devil’s clock at work.

“I want to talk to you,” you say. “You’ll always take Hannibal’s side over mine, even when you know he’s just being petty for the fun of it. Why? You’ll do anything he says. If he decided to kill me and serve me up to one of his stupid party guests I swear you’d help him!”

Will screws his eyes shut and opens them again, attempting to rally his cognition from the peat of slumber.

“You think Hannibal’s the Copycat,” he says, softly. “So this is what’s been going on with you.”

You pause, aware that you must be careful what you divulge from here. Certainly nothing Hannibal has suggested to you in confidence is safe.

“Don’t you think he could be the Copycat?” you ask. “It makes sense, right?”

Will sits up slightly against his pillows, his hands going to your hips almost by instinct to prevent you from slipping.

“Careful,” he says. “You know that I need proof for an allegation like that.”

“But if you doubt him even a little bit then why are you here?” you cry, in exasperation. “Why are you with him? How can you say you give a damn about the murders? What’s with you?”

You punch at Will’s shoulder for emphasis, and he looks at your balled hand with such amazement that he doesn’t immediately respond, merely tolerating the blow.

“You’re obsessed with each other,” you hiss. “Why don’t you both just kill me, eat me like he made us eat Savannah—”

“Stop it.”

There is authority in Will’s voice, now, cold confidence you’ve seen only in flashes, and always before some shameless feat of violence upon you. You cease fighting at once, wary of provoking him into lashing you as he would have done in your early days together.

“You’re going to let me work and navigate this situation in my own time without throwing a tantrum,” says Will, through his teeth. “And if you still think I’d stand by and let Hannibal kill you then I don’t know what to say to you. You belong to both of us. You’re mine, too, Little One.”

You don’t let yourself fold to that statement, give in to butterflies and flattery in the romantic language of possession.

“I know what I see,” you say. “The only reason you don’t want to believe Hannibal’s the Copycat is because you’d be hurt that he didn’t let you in on all his dirty little secrets right away. And if he’s caught then you’ll be all alone with your thoughts.”

Will’s hand returns to your lips again, pressing down until you’re forced to huff through your nose for breath.

“How is it you think you have everything about me all figured out?” says Will. “You’re no psychiatrist. You just throw guesswork at the wall to see which theory sticks. Aren’t you afraid of what'll happen if one does?”

With a hysterical jolt you see that you comprehend this man the least of your fathers, cannot when he knows not from one minute to the next who he is or what he truly wants.

The agent of order set on catching a murderer, the diabolical, petulant abuser, as aroused by your pain as by your whimpering ecstasy— are they at civil war, or are they the same entity in co-existing halves?

Chilled, you attempt to clamber away again only for Will to haul you back to him, settling your thighs on either side of his stirring groin.

“Um,” you say, in bashful affront. “What are you doing? I didn’t come here so that you could—"

"Don't give me that," says Will. "You woke me up by climbing on top of me. Seems like a pointed decision."

You gulp at the verge of him under you, at the olfactory concoction of masculinity, hot skin, hair oil, sick breath, and cologne.

"I wanted to strangle you, Dad,” you say. “Don't make this something it's not."

Will smirks, a harsh, pitying look.

"What do you gain from lying to yourself? You flirt with me at any opportunity you get. And when I touch you I know exactly what you feel. Don’t forget what I heard out of your mouth when Hannibal asked you about me. You said I was handsome.”

You recall that moment, your breathy little ‘yes’, and wriggle in humiliation.

“I was high.”

“But you meant it,” says Will. “Still mean it now.”

He’s merely trying to grasp his dignity back, you tell yourself, wearing his ability to empathise like the garb of some sneering god. Yet as he moves you against the quill of his instinct he brushes up the skirt of your dress to unveil miles of cold-pebbled skin, the deltoid of silk at your labia made black by your response to him.

“It helps you to say no,” he says— his voice is husky, coaxing now, almost kind. “To fight back the way you never could, all those years ago. So let me help you.”

You shake your head.

"Why not?"

You want to say, "it's wrong" but both of you are aware of that. Only Will strains at the possibility that this indulgence will save you, and half-heartedly, at that.

You say, "Let me go downstairs already."

Will touches a finger to your philtrum.

"Shh. Do you want Dr Lecter to come up here and join us?"

"Do you?" you return.

In the mid dark Will smiles nastily.

"While I appreciate my time with Hannibal, solo dining has its own appeal. And I’m in the mood for that."

He kisses you, a display of dominance flailing amidst uncertainty, and you find him more pitiable than ever, groping at you as though expecting you to return his passion. For it is his will—his, and Hannibal’s—for you to convert to the religion of violence.

You let Will touch you only so that you must tolerate him alone, barricading yourself against the whimpers that agitate your throat as he uses the wet of your betrayer cunt to please you.

You behold his face in its innocence, like a doe run from a thicket. His hunter's eyes.

He thrills and ignites you, invokes an obsessive desire to glimpse how deeply his attraction to evil goes. There is a mine of it in Will, the plenty that has him wrapping your underwear about his fingers to tighten the seam at your clitoris, that gathers the diamond strand of slick and smears it across your sulking tongue.

He kisses you to share in it, holding your rudely shoving hands from him by the wrists.

"How do you like it?" he says, with a crafty grin. "You ought to think twice before you act like such a wiseass."

Will’s left hand opens the damp buttonhole of his boxers and brings out his cock, stroking it as you wrestle in obstinate controversion to what he means to demonstrate.

Your blood is up, as frenzied by this struggle as by your dreams of death.

He's talking to you, touching you not as a father, nor as the cajoled colleague of Dr Lecter, but only as himself, and that frightens you, for without the layers of acting and the unsaid you are alone here with a man.

The Man lifts you at the waist, and as his erection intrudes that unwilling territory you squeak, and are silenced by his palm upon your mouth once more.

Guilty, guilty, the chant of a jury as Will grinds you atop him. Though he lies under you he is far from lazy, his right hand quick between your bodies.

You bat at his wrist. He shakes his head.

"You deny yourself every good thing life throws your way," he says. "And I know that this feels good. I've had enough practice to know how you look—how you behave—when it does. I can hear it."

Wetness in the curtained gloom, the sound of teeth in a tangerine.

You can't bear that he holds your attraction to him so easily over your head, the knowledge that had you met him elsewhere you would have hoped he'd fuck you like this.

With hands bunched in Will’s t-shirt you come, his hand quieting your whines as he holds you down to the root of his cock.

He's fed you in two ways, now; how could you ever say he does not care for you? This question you see in his cynical eyes, in the cycle of his pelvis into you. This conjugal act is just one brick in the cathedral of a burgeoning fascination between you.

In that moment you truly believe that Hannibal's blade in you would contort the older man into something like Will's enemy. That you cannot die with him beside you is both shield and weapon, not some curse you must bemoan.

“I need you,” you say, aloud, and Will chuckles huskily, the sound washing like foam through your loins.

"I know,” says Will, and he kisses you as he comes.

You kiss him back, and he cradles you against him, the anger gone out of you both like a wind dropped at sea.

“If Hannibal is the Copycat and the Ripper,” says Will, at length, “haven’t you thought about what would happen to you if he’s caught?”

“You’d take me home,” you say. “Right?”

Will shakes his head.

“I’d never send you back there while Leland Frost still has access to you.”

You wonder why Will hasn’t reported him and guess that he’s waiting on your word.

“But you’d keep me here with Hannibal,” you say.

“And with me.”

Sitting up again, you say, “Take me to your house, then. I’ll live with you and all your dogs. I’ll take care of them while you’re at work. I’ll do whatever you want. I could be your girlfriend for real.”

Will gives a short exhale.

“That can’t happen.”

Stung, you ask, “Is it because you don’t think I’m adult enough? Because you’re ashamed of me?”

“No,” says Will. “Of course not.”

“Then it’s because you can’t do it without him,” you snipe, getting down from the bed. “Or you just don’t want to do it without him. You want this to work so badly that not even the idea of him being a cannibal really bothers you.”

“That’s enough,” says Will, turning away. “Go to your room. I’m tired, One.”

You linger to stare at him, disturbed by your own revelations.

While Will might be your strongest chance of escape, he’s apprentice to the lord of this household, and can be influenced to follow Hannibal into his own Nyx. You must devise a second plan, one without any exterior aid required to run.

Open doors are there for you yet: you must believe this or perish, a star put out like a cigar, light gone into dust.

“Okay, Daddy,” you say, at last. “I’ll go. But you really should go get a brain scan or something. What’s making you sick isn’t just gonna go away. And watch what you eat, too. It’s making you worse.”

You dart from the room, shutting the door upon Will’s bewildered beginning of a question.